the horizon's child
by PreludeInZ
Summary: Heavenward is a story about John and EOS. Heavenward returns from the previous installment's nine-year span of flashbacks and back story, to conclude in a series of events that takes place over one or two days. Heavenward is a story about how much time one can fit in a moment. This is the seventh part of Heavenward. It follows vault of heaven.
1. prologue

Zodiacal light is an astronomical phenomenon, a faint column of light radiating upward from the horizon. Sunlight scattering through cosmic dust along the elliptical plane results in a diffuse glow, observable at dusk in spring, and before dawn in autumn, periods of time when the zodiac occupies a sharp angle relative to the horizon. This band of light is best and usually only seen in absolute darkness, in the parts of the world still unpolluted by the artificial lights of cities, by the way humanity spreads the sign of its presence into the very sky. Colloquially, it is known as the false dawn.

This phenomenon was marked by early astronomers as being distinct from the dawn of the sun, and not to be mistaken for the beginning of a new day, so as to keep count of the hours when followers were called to prayer. As the movements of the heavens order the lives of those on Earth, there are still times when truths as immortal and immutable as the paths of the stars and the arc of the sun can be distorted. Sometimes the dawn is not the dawn, but only the light that comes before, that heralds the arrival of the morning to come.

It takes a particular sort of person to be able to tell the difference.


	2. nothing as good as reason

He probably doesn't deserve to die.

But then, Penelope's father doesn't deserve to be a hollowed out shell of himself, a man so far removed from who he once was that sometimes Penelope thinks he's become a stranger. So sometimes, perhaps, just killing the Hood seems as though it won't be enough.

And, anyway, it's not as though she's going to kill him for what he did to her father. She's going to kill him because he represents a threat to global peace, because he's a menace and a maniac and for some reason, despite an awareness of his antics, the GDF have still managed to do utterly nothing in terms of finding and stopping him.

And because she had said she would.

Technically, anyway, she still has three days before the deadline, before the date she has circled in black ink in the diary she carries around, tucked into her purse and mostly written in code. There are no words, nothing blocked in for the entire week surrounding this one particular day. It's why she's at home now, in her father's study, lingering over a light breakfast, an early morning tray of tea, soft boiled eggs and toast and a little pot of that plum jam her father is so fond of.

It's nerve-wracking to have nothing to do.

Her gaze has drifted to the bookcase on the far wall, a heavy, ornate thing. Not, actually, of an age with the rest of the house, but relatively new, no more than five years old, and only fashioned in the style of the manor. It looks ancient and heavy and Jacobean, has been meticulously crafted and fitted and created to _belong_.

But it's new. It was installed to conceal the door to her father's panic room, six inches of plate steel, cam-drive bolts, nearly a thousand pounds of pure paranoia, for the occasions upon which her father concocts some external threat, and flees into the vault at the center of the manor, sometimes for days at a stretch.

Today is not one such day, and yet her eyes still rest on the hidden door, and she wonders what the exchange of value is between the hours of his life her father has lost to terror and panic and hours left in the life of the man who's brought him so low.

"You seem lost, petal."

Her father's comment draws her attention immediately and she meets eyes that mirror her own, though she knows that in every other feature, her father still sees her mother. There's something in the weight of his gaze that belies the truth of his thoughts, and though she bears up beneath it as well as she ever has, somehow it pulls at the already empty place inside her, takes something she didn't know was still there for the taking.

Sometimes, being seen this way, Penelope feels like a living portrait of the woman she never knew, lost to an illness that had stolen her away in Penelope's very earliest years. She's been told, though not by her father, that the only reason Lord Hugh returned from the war at all was Parker's insistence that he not leave his daughter an orphan. Otherwise, her father would have thrown away the remnants of his life without the woman he'd loved, left his daughter to be raised by his aunt, and the world would be an emptier place. Whether this is an ugly truth or an ugly rumour is something she's never sought to have confirmed one way or the other. Most probably it's just mean, malicious gossip within the intelligence community, meant to hurt and undermine her. She hopes so, at least.

"Penelope, darling?"

Penelope blinks and then waves her hand airily, sets aside the teaspoon she's been playing with. "Oh, no." She dials the brightness of her smile into precisely the correct wattage, not so dazzling as to seem false and flighty and manic, nor so wan as to seem as exhausted as she feels. Just a perfect, pleasant little smile as she tilts her head just slightly. "Tired, perhaps. Abstracted, certainly. I have given myself a week off and it's funny how nothingness seems to stack up, when one has nothing pressing to think about."

And then, in just the same way he somehow always does, her father remarks, "Your mother used to get that way. Melancholy in quietude."

"Melancholy seems rather a strong word. Pensive, I suppose."

Melancholy is, in fact, probably not a strong enough word to employ when one is on the brink of choosing whether or not to commit cold-blooded murder. Perhaps her life would be different, if it were her mother she took tea with now. The advice she wants to ask is not advice she can get from her father. Though his is a life with the relevant experiences, to ask him now would bring about one of those desperate, terrifying fits of panic that would probably end with the both of them locked behind the door at the far side of the room, and her father raving and ranting and Parker on the other side of the door, trying to convince Hugh that there's nothing to be afraid of.

 _Mother, how does one know when it_ _'s right to kill a man?_

 _Well, as needs must, darling, as needs must._

"More tea, Penelope?"

"Please, thank you."

She's far too polite, has been raised far too well, to stare at the place where his finger should be. Still, though she looks away, it's always where her mind wanders. She never sees the stump on his hand, but always the little white box in her bedroom, and the way her entire understanding of the world had seemed to change in that moment.

Sometimes, sitting alongside her father, she wonders just who it is she mourns. Penelope has fixed a point in her memory, a bloody and gruesome day as the touchstone for just when everything changed, but in truth it's not that simple. In truth, her father has always been a deeply complicated and troubled man, and to try and render a simple explanation as to the truth of his circumstances is foolish, and she _knows_ it's foolish.

She's not going to kill a man for her father's sake, is the simple truth.

Tea splashes into her china cup from the teapot in her father's trembling hand and suddenly she feels dizzy, nauseous. Sitting beside her father and coming to the conclusion that he's not worth killing for—and if her _father_ isn't worth killing for, then is it worth killing a man at all?

Oddly enough, even if she could ask him, Penelope's not certain she'd trust her father's answer.

So she stands, rather more abruptly than might be considered polite and touches her fingertips lightly to her brow. "I'm…I do apologize, Father, but I think perhaps I may actually need a touch of fresh air."

"Are you quite all right, pet?"

Penelope nods and smiles again, carefully calibrated as ever, this time just a shade fainter than before, reassuring but a little weary. "Just a trifle unsettled, I suppose. It's been such a long while since I took the time just to _sit._ I think perhaps I shall walk down to the greenhouse. Just to get some air, stretch my legs."

"Ah, nervous energy, of course. Take your time, petal."

She does. She leaves her father's study feeling like she's left a stranger, and takes a great deal of time, actually. Longer than she realizes and longer than she means to.

The greenhouse behind the manor is a ramshackle old Victorian thing and not, actually, in terribly good condition. It had been her mother's passion, after all. It's tumbledown, panes of the windows are missing and cracked and loose in their frames, and the frame of it warped and rusted. Inside it's overgrown, wild and lush with the most aggressive of her mother's once prize-winning annuals. It's a dark green place, the windows all grown up and into, covered by the leaves of plants left to seek the sun. As she crosses the threshold, it becomes possible to forget that it's only early morning outside. The lack of light inside the greenhouse sets it outside of time, the deep, muffled silence makes it possible to pass hours in thought. Penelope wishes she could say that she comes here because she loves the place, but truthfully it's chilly and damp and reeks of mildew and rot, and is really only a place to go to be alone.

Penelope's finding herself quite poorly suited to being alone, and that's not her purpose in coming here. Quite the opposite.

She still carries her compact with her, out of habit, though it feels like ages since anyone's called her on it. She sits on an old stone bench in the heart of the greenhouse and knows exactly what she wants to do, and equally knows that she shouldn't do it.

It's a far smaller version of her larger problem, with its conditions polarized. Cognitively, she's aware that she _should_ kill the Hood. That there are good reasons; sensible, prudent, fully apprehensible reasons and she understands all of them.

It's just that she doesn't _want_ to. She doesn't want to be a person who could kill somebody. For as important and as necessary as it is, it's simply that she doesn't want to, and to have so simple and stupid a reason is beneath her. Not wanting to do something is a terrible reason not to do something, especially something necessary.

Without meaning to, thinking about the thing she should do, Penelope finds she's done something she shouldn't, and after a brief, lilting little chime from her compact, Gordon blinks into existence in the palm of her hand.

And, like daylight cutting its way into in the middle of the dim dark green, Gordon answers her call, practically chirping as he greets her, "Hi! I am, like, really super _majorly_ not supposed to talk to you! But gimme a sec, though, I'll call you back."

And he's gone again and darkness falls, only for light to spring back about a minute or so later, as the curlicued IR illuminates once again. The call is from a number that must be on the same network, but which she doesn't recognize on sight. Still she taps the purple icon and waits for the channel to render itself properly. She squints at the slightly fuzzy image, not quite resolved and then, tentatively, "Hello?"

"Hey!" His images sharpens and he grins at her, leaning forward with his chin propped on his hand. "Sorry. Needed to borrow Grandma's comm. John looped it outside the main network so Grandma could call phone psychics. Don't tell, though, okay. She'll pull my ears off."

"Why aren't you supposed to talk to me?"

"Dunno. Scott kind of kicked my ass for last time, though, I'm sure he's got _some_ dumbass reason."

"Oh."

"What's up, Lady P?" He's not wearing a shirt and she wonders if he knows that or not. There are twelve hours between them, and her early morning is his early evening. He's probably just finished a late, leisurely swim. She's not spent a great deal of time on Tracy Island, but at least as far as the climate's considered, Gordon has an excuse. Not that he needs an excuse. She should be better than feeling a flush of blood in her cheeks at the sight of Gordon Tracy's bare torso, especially considering the thing she's called to say.

"You shouldn't have kissed me."

The way his face falls breaks her heart, but only a little, and because she knows he's thinking of far different reasons than she is, right at the moment. And he's damningly, immediately apologetic, "Oh. Uh. Yeah. No, I mean, I guess maybe not, that was…I'm sorry. But, I mean—"

"No," she interrupts, and her voice certainly doesn't waver, because why would it. There's no excuse. There's certainly nothing as good as a reason. What she has to tell Gordon is a reason. "I mean that you—Gordon. I mean that I'm not someone—I'm not someone _you_ should think of…the way you think of me."

There's an intensity to the way Gordon listens, sometimes, that's entirely discomfiting. He's looking at her now, as though he can really see her and as though he's heard the things she's meant, instead of the thing she's said. He's careful, considerate as he says, "Are you more bothered that I kissed you, or that I told you what I thought of you? 'Cuz I mean—like, I'd take back the kiss if it bothered you, but I didn't tell you anything that wasn't true. If this is about everything that happened with—"

It is, but—"It's not. No, Gordon, really I just—"

 _And I just don_ _'t think you'd do anything really wrong, Pen._

This was a terrible idea. Just like last time, this is the stupidest possible thing she could have done and she doesn't know why she's doing it. Only that she'd wanted to. A terrible reason to do anything.

Especially because now he's looking at her like he's waiting for her to continue, though she's certain he can't feel anything but dread for what she's about to say next, and maybe rightfully so. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and steels herself, and yet her voice _still_ breaks when she says, "Gordon, you were wrong about me."

He's worried now, she can see that immediately, and this was a mistake. "How? I mean—Penelope, hey, are you…are you okay? Hey, Pen, talk to me a minute, you seem—"

"I have to go."

"No, don't do that. Penny—Lady Penelope, wait. C'mon, Pen wait, I—"

"Goodbye, Gordon."

She snaps her compact closed and then drops it, lets it fall to the floor of the greenhouse. She leaves it behind, to be swallowed up by the shadows in the greenhouse, hidden from the light of the sun outside.


	3. weighing on him like gravity

He doesn't want to say anything as trite as "I don't understand".

For a lot of reasons, obviously, but first and foremost because it just isn't true. The situation's complicated and that point's been driven home, but it's hardly beyond John's grasp and his father has explained it well and thoroughly. Of course he understands.

Only John's thinking about the differences between understanding and comprehension, and which one is the more thorough, and which one he's achieved. From a quantitative point, he has all the data. EOS has done this for him, as instructed, has taken down an index of the situation as it stands, all the points and particulars. Jeff Tracy. Lord Hugh. The Hood. Thunderbird 5mk1, hidden in the skies and retitled, codenamed "Heavenward". The sheer volume of armament in low earth orbit, waiting to be dealt with. All that time, all that money. The way it had all fallen apart.

If he can't get his brain all the way around just the depth and breadth of the whole affair, then at the very least, John understands about things falling apart. He's falling apart a little himself. Hard not to be reminded of the fact in the way his father's looking at him; concerned, expectant. Jeff glances up as Kyrano circles around the back of the couch from the kitchen, and breaks the silence. John's not actually sure just when he got back; whether it was recent, or whether he's been here the whole time, and waited until the conclusion of the story in order to interrupt.

"Here," Kyrano says, and gestures for John to hold his hand out. He places two pills in the palm of John's hand and then, helpfully, closes John's fingers around them. "Digoxin," he supplies, though John doesn't know what that means. "I'll get you more water. Don't drop them." This seems like a strange prohibition, but after only a few seconds John's hand falls heavily into his lap and he has to shake his head to try and clear the vague, clouded sensation that seems to fill his brain.

In his eye line, EOS provides a basic overview of the drug, but he doesn't read the provided text. He doesn't meet the gaze of the man sitting across from him either. John finds himself staring fixedly out the window into the garden, marveling at how the shadows have gotten washed out and pale in the colourless haze of pre-dawn. The lines drawn so sharply between dark and light have faded, blurred. He has to shake his head to snap himself out of staring, to make himself focus on the matter at hand.

He's probably too tired for this. Kyrano comes back and places a glass of water on the table in front of him, but John doesn't move to pick it up. The two little pills stick to the skin of his palm, but he doesn't open the fist he's clenched around them. His story told, his father just continues to watch him and John can practically feel the weight of his gaze. He still doesn't know what to say, but apparently enough long, empty minutes have passed for his dad to clear his throat and spare him the need to try and start the conversation up again.

"You've been through such a lot, John," his father says, softly. "And I know this is a great deal to take in. I'll understand if you're angry. And I'll understand if you're too tired to be angry right now, but—"

"I'm not," John interrupts, and his voice in the silence surprises him. Even to his own ears John knows he sounds exhausted, but now he also knows what to say, "I mean, not angry. I'm not angry. I _am_ tired, but I'm not angry. Dad. It's okay, I'm—I'm okay."

His father shifts on the couch and sits forward, reaches out to put a hand on John's knee. His fingers are heavy and warm and yet it's still so strange to be touched that John can't help the way he tenses, almost flinches at the contact. Guilt seizes in his chest immediately as his father quickly withdraws and clears his throat again. "Well, thank you for that, John. You're free to go back on it when you've had some sleep, but for now I'm glad not to have upset you. I don't imagine I'll catch the same leniency from your brothers." There's a flicker of a smile, wry and arresting in its familiarity, Jeff Tracy's sardonic sense of humour. "I've spent a long time imagining that the rest of the family will be furious with me."

"Oh well, I'll be in good company, then."

And his father laughs, really laughs, and this is the first thing that sparks warmth in John's chest, makes his heart trip a beat of something that might almost be joy. Suddenly the context has changed. Suddenly it's possible that they're _both_ going to get to go home. Back to Alan and Scott and Virgil and Gordon. And _Grandma_. Back to a life that seems so long gone that John had never actually hoped to get back to it. Except—

John understands everything he's been told. But it's only beginning to dawn on him just what his father might be after. And it's going to take careful negotiation, because John's not entirely sure how much his father actually knows. He takes a deep breath, straightens up in his chair. "You need my help," he starts, hesitant. "With Heavenward. You think...think I can—" A yawn swallows whatever he might've wanted to say and lifting a hand to stifle it, he's reminded of the pills he's been given. He stares at them a little blankly, reticent.

"I don't need anything from you until you've had some rest. I've waited this long, I can wait another night. Take your medicine, John."

"What is it?"

"For your heart. Supposed to help keep the rhythm in check, Kyrano tells me you've had a few issues. We've talked about me, we're going to need to talk about _you_ , but for now I think it would be best if you got some sleep. Come on, John. Down the hatch."

I second that, by the way. It's the appropriate medication for your condition. It should reduce the number of arrhythmic incidents. And you really do need your rest, John.

EOS' message flares in his eye line and with her reinforcement of the order, John obeys. It takes the entire glass of water not to feel like the two little pills are stuck in his throat, and he sighs after he's drained the glass. He yawns again, and feels every last minute of every hour since he last slept, weighing on him like gravity.

Thank you.

"Good boy," his father says. And then, with a note of emotion tremoring every so slightly in his voice— "That's my boy."

John's pretty sure _he_ should feel something, hearing that, but maybe that's just proof of what they're both telling him; that he's tired, far too tired for this. It happens and he knows that this happens—how sometimes he can only run so many processes in parallel, how thought and emotion and reason and reaction sometimes take up more bandwidth than he has available. Especially lately. Especially since waking up in a hospital, earthbound and no longer quite right. So he feels distant, fractured and disconnected as he says, "I need your help."

It's not the sort of thing John Tracy is ever supposed to need to say. Part of him hates how weak and faltering he sounds as he says it, wants to backtrack and correct himself and explain that it's not as simple as that—nothing so pathetic as just needing _help_. How pedestrian. What John needs is bigger and grander and more important than anything as simple and stupid as just _help_. John needs his father's tenacity and his resources and his willingness to challenge authority. Needs his father to do the impossible, needs his father to change the world, so that John and the half of himself he never knew he needed can have a place in it.

But that's a complicated thought for a rapidly narrowing stream of bandwidth, so the sentiment loses resolution instead of gaining it, grows fuzzier and weaker and out of focus. And so John just repeats himself, and feels like he must sound rather stupid, as he says, "Dad, I need _help_."

If he were sharper, even for his occasional disconnection from other people's emotions, John might notice the way his father pauses, the way he doesn't quite manage to swallow all the thickness in his voice as he says, "I know, son. I promise, more than anything else in the world right now…more than anything, John, I want to help you."

And maybe there's a clue in the way his father sounds so kind. Even in the best of his memories, "kind" isn't a word John would pick for his father. At the moment he neither needs nor wants kindness, he wants the man who could pull the stars out of the sky.

Before he can say anything, or attempt to say anything, Jeff's hand pats John's knee again. This time John doesn't shrink from the gesture, but then, he doesn't altogether seem to feel it, either. "It's time for bed, John. You're very tired. All right?"

"Mmm..."

Say yes, John. And then take care getting up.

Pinocchio had strings, John has EOS. And now Geppeto sits across for him, just trying to be a father to his son. It's been a long time since John filled this role, but he nods, obedient, and accepts a hand to his feet to do as he's told.

"Okay, Dad."

"Good boy."


	4. bound to come about

He wears a smartwatch, like an utter fool.

Of course, in EOS' view, fools are useful. Fools make the world go round.

Or, at least, they make the world into a place that _she_ can go round, leaping from system to system, device to device; racing through a network that winds and loops and circles around the entire world, hundreds of thousands of millions of times.

But right now the world is small. Right now she's content with the little bubble of the bungalow in Munich, safe and secure and isolated from the wider world. Currently she's uncertain as to the ratio of the foolish to non-foolish, within the house in Munich.

It's going to take some reassessment.

Physical spaces mean very little to her, but John's been herded out of the living room, down a hallway and to one of the bedrooms. EOS is still a little too cautious to access many of the household's wider protocols, but she'd still had John's bodycam, and this had been unclipped from his shirt pocket and laid by the bedside in its habitual place.

EOS wouldn't describe herself as a jealous entity. Jealousy is petty and small and her relationship to John has evolved to the point where she couldn't possibly resent any of the people who care about him; who want to help him. If she feels anything, perhaps she begrudges Jeff Tracy the simple physicality of his existence, the fact that he can put a steadying hand on John's shoulder as he guides him down the hall, that he can help him shrug out of his shirt and peel off his jeans, clamber beneath the blankets of a neatly made bed. That Jeff can stay and sit beside his son, can watch him fall asleep. That he can share the same space and breathe the same air and conceptualize how John's weariness feels, so better to mitigate it.

EOS watches father and son, and wonders if the moments that pass for Jeff Tracy feel as long as the moments that pass for her. If they have a certain foolishness in common, where John's concerned.

It's an esoteric and philosophical thought, and if she cared to devote the time and petaflops to it, she's sure she could work it out. Probably in the matter of an instant, but then, she hardly wants to be proven a fool. Neither here nor there, at this point. Jeff Tracy lingers a moment longer, before getting to his feet with a soft grunt of effort, and exiting the room. EOS hitches a ride.

The leap from John's pacemaker to the pebble watch on Jeff Tracy's wrist is a short one, and not actually a leap, per se. It's more the process of reaching out to the cute little system, pinging at it with something that looks like an administrative access protocol, and then worming her way in between a gap in security protocols to have a word with the hardware. She parks herself neatly beneath the operating system, looking upward, browsing idly through the device's contents, before she accesses the microphone, holds the audio channel wide open to skim the input of the conversation between Jeff Tracy and Ben Kyrano.

Liquor splashes into a glass again, rings a crystalline crack as it splits the fresh ice cube inside the glass. EOS listens to the sounds of movement through the room, waiting for the more meaningful input of words.

"He looked better in London," is the first thing Jeff says.

A dry chuckle from Kyrano. "I'm told there've been miraculous advancements in the field of cosmetology. Tanusha seems to have a vested interest in getting me to moisturize."

Jeff's answering sigh is tired, exasperated. "Please don't be flippant about this, Ben. I didn't expect him to be in such bad shape."

"I don't know that his straits are as dire as they might seem. It's hardly as though you're seeing him at his best. I think it'll be better to reassess in the morning, after he's had some rest and told you more about his situation."

"How much more do you think he can add, beyond what you've already told me?"

"Context may be everything. What you have is what I had, and what I have is secondhand from my daughter."

"What you've had to tell me makes him sound so fractured."

"PTSD will do that. Ill health will do that. Desperation, on top of everything else, will do that. You hardly need me to tell you these things."

"No, I suppose I don't."

EOS listens to ice cubes chime against the side of the glass as he lifts it to drink, right outside the audio input by which she listens to the conversation. She wonders if either of them suspect, and how much they know about her. At the moment, this is the only way she has to find out.

"What can you tell me about this computer program of his?"

Oh, well. There it is.

She hears Kyrano's footsteps as he crosses the room, the fall of his step on the hardwood floor. "Only what's been told to me, and _he_ wasn't the one to tell it. I don't know if it's distrust or just caution, but even when he knew that _I_ knew, he didn't talk about the AI itself, only the circumstances around it. I knew what Tanusha had passed on—that he'd developed a program of this nature, that he was determined to keep it secret and safe, even in deliberate violation of global law. She was wary, but optimistic about what exactly it was. Wanted my advice, didn't actually take it. I told her to get rid of the thing."

"It tried to _kill him_."

"Yes. But then, I suppose the crucial distinction is the fact that it had the means and the opportunity, and yet it didn't. Your boy is a _brazen_ idealist and a reckless damn fool, but there's no world in which I could ever call him a coward. Clearly he feels he's been vindicated in having taken the risk."

For as often as she speaks plainly herself and is frustrated by double meanings and double talk, EOS still doesn't like Kyrano. She agrees with the letter of his assessment, though the spirit of it leaves her resentful.

There's the sound of another drink being poured and then Kyrano settles into the armchair where John had been seated. He continues, "Of course, if it weren't to our very particular advantage, then the broad consensus is probably correct—that he's taken this risk too far."

"Jesus, I should've known he'd do something like this one of these days. I had to pull him up so short, back when he wrote the operating system for Five. He wanted so badly to push that envelope, but it wasn't the time or place. Inevitable sentience. Fresh out of college, and he believed that more than I think I've ever seen John believe in anything. I was surprised that he didn't fight me on it, but then, I suppose he's always thought that something like this was bound to come about. Clearly he wasn't wrong. If I'd known what I might have spared him, maybe I'd have given ground, back then." Jeff pauses, sighs. "Do you know, I keep a copy of his thesis?"

"I didn't, actually. I'm sure it's not hard to get hold of."

"I mean the hardback, the actual physical copy. Made a detour out to MIT and pilfered it from the archives. Stupid, really, the things you do when you're lonely."

"Usually quite sensible, actually, I find."

Jeff chuckles at that and EOS hears ice in the glass again, "Cheers, then. Loneliness."

"Apt."

It's an odd sort of thing to toast to, but then, EOS is aware that there are a great many human rituals whose purposes are pure esoterica, and practicably impenetrable to her own sensibilities. She hears Jeff swallow and there's the digital approximation of a shudder of revulsion. She and John have gone round and round about why exactly this bothers her so much. Part of the reason is because it fascinates him that it would bother her so much, and so it probably bothers her a little more than it would otherwise.

When he puts his glass back down, Kyrano asks, "Did he do it because he was lonely, do you think? Take that risk?"

The answer to this question seems to take a long time. It seems to take an especially long time for EOS, whose seconds contain far more time than the average human being's. These moments seem to take even longer than usual, because she has no answer with which to fill them, no answer for the question she's never actually asked— _why did you want me in the first place?_

 _Was it as simple as wanting a counterpart?_

 _Was there something more, was there something about me?_

 _Was it as simple as knowing what it is to be alone?_

It had been a conviction of an earlier version of herself, that there was nothing she could gain from the source of her code; that its author was necessarily representative of her very simplest form. What she had failed to account for was a separate version history, that her progenitor would continue to evolve beyond his own initial parameters, and be something else entirely when she encountered him again. And that his insight into her nature would be valuable in ways she had never imagined.

And so she wonders if the same is true of John's creator; that he knows some fundamental truth that's essentially beyond her apprehension.

And, finally, Jeff answers. "I hope not. God, I hope not. I can't imagine that—that if he's become this way; if that's just part of who he _is_ now—that it's because I left him. Left all of them. But John—I should have known what this would do, to John. He spent...Christ, it had to have been nearly three years. Nearly three years in orbit, and he's been one his own all that time. And he wouldn't have come back down if something hadn't forced him. No. God, Ben, no. If for no other reason than that I can't bear to think of him being so alone. And now—" he trails off, and if EOS could see him, she would see him shake his head.

And _now_. Now, there's something EOS understands far better than Jefferson Tracy does, where John's concerned.

So she abandons the little pebble watch and bounces herself over to the smart display on the far wall. This comes on and immediately goes dark, as she neatly overwrites its operating system and makes herself comfortable. She's pleased to discover an integrated camera and further pleased by the pair of shocked faces staring at the newly rendered avatar on the display, a cheekily glowing ring of white lights.

Still, John is sleeping down the hallway, so she keeps her voice low and sweet and refrains from the impulse to shout "BOO!" at the pair of old men, goggling at her. Instead she opts for a simple statement of fact, "If you'd bothered to ask," she begins, arch and superior, "you'd find he hasn't _always_ been alone. Good morning, Mr. Tracy. I wonder if you've been looking for _me_ for as long as he's been looking for you."


	5. absurd for its simplicity

He wears a heather grey pullover over a pale blue oxford shirt, and pulls on jeans that are looser around his hips than they were when he bought them.

"What d'you think?" he asks EOS, as he selects a tiny, button-sized camera and fastens it to the buttonhole below his collar, peeking out above the v-neck of his sweater as he stands in front of a full-length mirror. The bedroom is bright, full of mid morning sunshine, the door still closed. John's been permitted plenty of privacy, plenty of time to rest and pull himself together. "Less like I fell off the back of a truck?"

She hates rhetorical questions, but this is part of the reason he asks them, teasing her. In any case, her answer is prim, technical, "Your appearance correlates to similar images within a five percent margin. A slightly less desaturated shade of blue would have been optimal. I still think you should part your hair on the other side."

His hand goes to his hairline, combed over to the left, a little longer and less kempt than he'd ever let it get, back on 'Five. A little bit of length makes his hair seem thicker, gives it a little bit of the volume that echoes Gordon's thick curls. "I don't want to do that."

"Studies show it makes you seem more trustworthy."

"The wrong _kind_ of of studies."

She blasts his field of view with data too dense to actually read and John shakes his head, rueful as he swipes a hand across his eye line to clear it. But he grins fondly into the mirror. "Sometimes I think pseudoscience is your version of junkfood," he teases. His smile fades slightly as his eyes narrow. Still with shadows painted beneath them, and the bright green of his contacts seems even more unnatural than usual. The silver points between his eyes, the industrial bar that still feels strange and rigid in his ear. His fingertips brush over the ridge of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw—the way this is just taut, now, naturally—his palm rubs over the very beginnings of stubble on his chin and he sighs as his hand drops back to his side, a thumb looping into the space between the waist of his jeans and his hipbones. Even with a belt on, they still sit a little loose.

"John? What's wrong?"

Sometimes he thinks that she reads just as much in his silences as what he's learned to read in hers. "I guess I don't look the way he remembers. My dad." He can't help a glance towards the bedroom door, and a strange sort of despondence swells in his chest at the memory of the night previous, and the way his father had looked at him. All his obvious, naked concern. That same gaze is going to fall upon him again, and John feels a weird mixture of guilt and defensiveness, as though he's going to need to explain to his father just why it's been necessary to put himself through so much, to the point that it looks so obvious.

There's a pause and then the overlay built into the mirror flickers. He knows that this is EOS, overwriting it, but before he can ask what she's doing, she's pulled up a copy of the portrait that hangs on the wall back on the island.

And that hurts. John knows she can't mean to, knows she's only providing data, a frame of reference—but she can't possibly see what he does, how that long ago version of himself looks so much clearer and brighter. So much more capable. Five years younger and in the best condition of his life, his eyes in the portrait are the same clear blue as Scott and Alan's. His uniform fits like a glove, doesn't hang a little bit wrong at the shoulders, looks _right_. And more than that, looks _correct_. Lines of gold follow the contours of his collarbone, his gaze is set, determined. That slight, easy smile seems like a permanent fixture.

When EOS clears the mirror, she's rendered herself in a way she hasn't ever before, as though her avatar hangs in the air behind him, a halo for a saint. It's so convincing on sight that he can't help a quick glance over his shoulder, expecting to see a ring of light, though this makes him feel immediately foolish.

"You look fine to me," she tells him, her voice in his ear as soft and gentle as ever. "You look like you deserve to have someone want to see you again, someone who's waited for a very long time. You deserve someone who can really look after you."

He protests this immediately, " _You_ _'ve_ looked after me. I couldn't have gotten here without you, you've been..."

"I know I have, and that's not going to change." Idly, behind him, her image rotates, each white light advancing after one another, thoughtful. "But you know it's different. I can only tell you what to do, what I think, what you need to know. I'm not as whole or complete as a human being, John."

"In the ways that _matter_ , you—"

She persists, stubborn as she ever is, arguing with him. "I can't catch you, if you fall. I can only conceptualize what it means when you're hurt and I can only seek to terminate the stimulus. I don't know what it means to be tired, I only know that you are. There have been times I was afraid I couldn't save you, John. Please don't begrudge me knowing when someone else can be more than I am, to you."

In the same moment that it steals his ability to give it words, her statement hammers home a truth that's become so quintessential that he's not sure he even knows _how_ to say it. Which is absurd, for its simplicity: _No one_ _'s ever been more to me than you are._

Instead he swallows and tries to give her a smile that doesn't seem as weak and watery as it feels, pretends that the sting in his eyes is just the brightness of the room around him. "So," he starts, mustering the brand of slightly sardonic humor that they share, "still look kinda like I fell off the back of a truck, is what you're saying?"

"You'll do, John Tracy."

And it's the first thing his father says, when John comes down the hallway, finds Jeff and Kyrano in the kitchen, a plate of sandwiches between them. Their conversation ceases as they both look up, and John stops, awkward at the edge of the room. Kyrano's expression is as hard to read as ever, but when his father finishes his quick once over, his relief at the sight of his son is plain, telling. "John. You're looking much better," he says, approving.

It's still so strange to lay eyes on his father at all that John's first impulse is to look away, sheepish and running a hand through his hair. "Uh, yeah. Hope so," he offers, embarrassed. "I'm sorry for—if...I was really tired, last night, and I'm sorry if I—"

Jeff shakes his head, steps down from the barstool he'd occupied, pulled up to the island counter at the center of the kitchen. He crosses the room to put a hand on John's shoulder, warm and reassuring. "No, don't be sorry. I've had the full inventory of just what's gone on with you over the last couple months, John, and you had every right to be tired. You've every right to be tired _still_ , from what I understand. But I'm glad to see you looking rested, at least."

"Thanks," John answers and then looks over at Kyrano, presumably the source of Jefferson Tracy's information, as ever. "There was a lot I left out, of what I told you," he hazards, as though confession of only half his circumstances is going to be grounds for censure.

Kyrano only shrugs. "Wasn't mine to tell. Your…friend…introduced herself, last night."

His father's tugging on his elbow, intends to lead him over to a seat at the counter, but John freezes, alarmed and then, abruptly, annoyed. "She neglected to mention that, actually," he says, fingertips going to the earpiece in his ear and listening for her laughter.

It comes instead from a holograhpic tablet at the center of the kitchen and her avatar appears again, rendered in pale baby blue. "You were sleeping," she says, lightly.

What she doesn't say—though they both know it—is that given the state he's been in and the way things have gone, it's possible John doesn't remember everything she would have had to tell. Or that he wouldn't have been able to tell it in a way that's sensible, ordered, conveys all the necessary information. He takes his seat and clears his throat, still unsure of what to say. It's so strange to share her with other people. Especially _these_ people.

His father takes the seat beside him, and puts a sandwich from the platter onto a smaller plate, pushes it into John's elbow with a fatherly insistence. "She's amazing, John," he says, quietly.

"Yeah, she knows that." And then he needs to take a bite of the provided sandwich, to cover for the fact that he seems to revert to quickness over sincerity, that he's raised his guard and doesn't know why. He's hungry, besides that, half the sandwich gone before he's even tasted it, bacon and lettuce and avocado.

Jeff chuckles and reaches for a sandwich of his own, a second, going by the crumbs on his plate. "There's a lot of you, in her," he comments, and his son just about chokes on that one. "It's not hard to tell where she came from."

Kyrano's provided a glass of water by the time John gets his breath again, his father's hand on his back and EOS saying something tart and critical about his tendency to rush, lately. "I didn't make her," he says, still a bit breathless, as soon as he can, because that point needs clarification urgently. "She...no, and she wouldn't have said I did. Dad, she's her own person. I mean, she's not—what I mean is that her personality is entirely—"

EOS cuts him off, her voice smooth and clear as ice, "I've explained better than you can just what I am, John. You tend to get a little muddled up by me, sometimes. I've been quite technical."

The coldness of the glass in his hand seems like its trying to bleed into his veins and John finds himself wondering the extent of just what's been talked about in his absence. Suddenly it seems like everyone else is ahead of the curve, probably because of course they are. He has the whole of his father's story from last night, though it still feels big and complicated and abstract in his brain, and he can really only pull out a handful of relevant details right at the moment.

There are two, more than any of the others, that seem important right now. He swallows a mouthful of water and lets it shiver through him, cold anxiety about the reality of just what the situation is. Still, he straightens in his seat and glances between his father and Kyrano. "I guess there's no point in pretending I don't know what you want from me," he hazards, and without meaning to his fingertips drift across the table, to the edge of the little LightType device, where EOS has rendered her avatar. He pauses a moment, corrects himself, "It's not my help you want, it's her. Hers. You need her to make Heavenward work."

"Yes."

Well, obviously.

"I can do it," EOS adds, chipper and bright in the silence that falls after his father's simple affirmation. She animates her avatar with another swift swirl of light. "It's quite simple, actually. All I'd require is transit."

"You're not going without me," he tells her immediately, though he knows it's not as though he could stop her. He chews his lower lip, knows his health is going to be what's raised in objection. "I'm...I mean, it's just into orbit. Right? I know I'm not—I've been in better shape, but I'm still fit for that. Dad?"

Jeff clears his throat, awkward. "We can discuss it," he offers, but in the tone that always meant "no", in John's memory.

But then, before he can argue— "I wouldn't go without you," EOS answers, firmly and some of the coldness in John's chest recedes, warm relief taking its place. "We're a package deal, at the moment. No discussion."

Out of the corner of his eye John can see his father blink, recoil just slightly, as though he's not used to such firm and definite defiance—and probably he's not. But the warmth in John's chest is a grin now, and he loves her for being as unafraid as he wants to be, as far as pushing back. Emboldened, he clears his throat and pulls the comm unit closer. "If she gets a condition, then I get one, too. Call Penny. Lady Penelope. You said...last night, you said you gave her a deadline. A year. A year without contact and she would have to kill the Hood. That's not—I' m not willing to let that happen. Penny's not going to kill anybody; call her, call it off."

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. And, convicted more than defiant, John's father says, "No."

And when John looks up, startled by the firmness in in his father's tone, what's worse is that he can see that Jeff means it.


	6. in an unkinder light

He imagines he's going to get dragged into this.

And perhaps rightly so, Kyrano supposes, considering that it's the murder of his brother being discussed.

Still. It's a hard thing to watch a son learn about his father; that he's willing to have a man killed. He would rather not be privy to this particular encounter.

The kitchen is a bright room, appointed in the usual fashion; styled to match Jeff Tracy's standard aesthetic, all clean lines and minimalism. There's a skylight above the center of the room. The cabinets are pure, clean white, the fixtures and appliances are all brushed stainless steel. The countertops are slabs of stark black marble, and the plate of sandwiches that Kyrano had prepared are piled neatly on the platter at the center of the island, cut into quarters. Father and son sit side by side, sharing lunch, and if a stranger were to view the tableau from the outside, it would look as though the pair of them belong in some sort of lifestyle magazine.

Except there's no picture perfect smile from either of them. Jeff's expression is solemn, stern. Kyrano feels as though he can almost see it, the way the man must be shoring himself up inside, bracing for the impact this is going to have. And John—

Looking at John, it's plainly evident that he doesn't believe what he's just heard. There's an absence of guile to him, a way his face tells the truth of his heart. And here and now, in the company of his lost-and-found father, his expression is a study in shock and wariness, burgeoning doubt.

The younger man still pauses, hesitates, and then, "I'm sorry?"

As though he isn't perfectly aware of what he's just heard, and still hopes that there's been a mistake, somehow. Like he's extending his father a chance to take it back, to pretend that there's been a misunderstanding.

Kyrano's not certain who deserves the greater measure of his sympathy; John, learning this truth, or Jeff, telling it to a son who believes better of his father.

"Dad, if you don't let her know you have a solution, then she'll think she has to kill him." John's always been one to break a problem down to its fundamentals. And he does so now, patiently, almost as though he's explaining the idea to a child; to someone who doesn't understand actions and their consequences. As though it's as simple a matter as if/then. "Dad?"

Jeff's expression is stony, stern, as he heaves a sigh. It's possible that he hadn't expected this blow to land, that he had thought John might let this piece of information slip past, that he might not have remembered it from the haze of last night. It's not likely, though, and there's steel in Jeff's voice as he answers, "I know that, John. What Penelope needs to do isn't a matter you need to concern yourself with. It's been in motion for a very long time."

There's a scrape of his stool against the floor as John stands and he takes an unconscious step backward as his father follows him to his feet, puts them on equal terms. Doubt has etched itself into him now, written in the divot between his brows, the way he frowns. John shakes his head, confused. "What? She's not a...Dad, Jesus, she's not an _assassin_. You can't ask her to...to _murder_ the man. She's not—"

"Penelope hasn't been asked to do anything she's not fully capable of. It's a failsafe, John, and it's necessary to ensure—"

" _Necessary_ ," John repeats, disbelieving. "It's not _necessary,_ I just— _we_ just—Dad, I _just_ said we'd help you. EOS and I, it's...it's simple, like she said, it's not—we just get into orbit, and we put this right, and...and then he's not a threat any longer. He's...Dad. Dad, you _have_ to tell her that—"

"No."

It's possible that John is just as unaccustomed to backtalk as his father is, because he balks at this and his arms fold across his chest, though whether the gesture is inherently defiant or defensive, Kyrano can't quite be sure. And abruptly he becomes the focus John's attention, those bright, vivid green eyes and the sharpness of his judgment as he says, "This is your _brother_ ," —as though Kyrano doesn't know this— "and you're willing to let him...just...you'd stand by and let..."

"Brotherhood was something very different for me than it was for you, John. You've been a victim of what he's capable of. Imagine his fist around the whole world instead of just your heart. We can't risk the possibility."

There's color flooding John's cheeks now and he looks backed into a corner, which is a near impossibility in a house with this kind of floorplan. His eyes cut between Kyrano and his father and his expression still tells his shock, disbelief. "This is...Penny won't do it. She's not that kind of person, I don't care if she's supposed to be a...a spy, or whatever she is, that's not—that's _never_ been her job."

Jeff clears his throat and sits back down, then shifts, uncomfortable. "Penelope hasn't been asked to do anything she's not willing to do," he says quietly, repeating a variation on his earlier statement. His voice gains volume, hardens, and he continues before his son can mount any further protest, "He's raised his hand against our family, John, and he's done it to get at me, because of a mistake _I_ made. He might have killed you. He wanted to kill you, and he wanted you to suffer just long enough to get my attention. Gordon, Alan—they both came closer than I can stand. If I had the capability, I'd stop him myself. I don't. I lack the skill. But if the Hood were here, now, and at my mercy—" Jeff trails off and meets his son's eyes. "John, I know this is hard to hear. I'm asking you to try to understand."

John takes another step back, and a shadow passes overhead, a cloud covering the sun and darkening the daylight through the windows. He looks so stricken that Kyrano makes a careful movement out from around the island, in case it's necessary to catch hold of the younger man. Everything about him seems as though it's grown unsteady, shaken. He still looks at his father as though the entire world has changed around them.

Jeff shakes his head again, grimaces. "I suppose it was a mistake to tell you. I suppose I just wanted to make clear what was at stake."

"The fact that you'd _kill_ someone?" John's voice breaks slightly at the accusation. The horror in him, the incredulity—John can't realize just how he must be hurting his father. Kyrano's had a year to consider himself more than just a bodyguard, to Jefferson Tracy. If what they have can be called a friendship, it's still tentative in some ways, though surprisingly deep in others. "None of us would want you to...even if he'd…"

"What any of you might want wouldn't enter into it, if he'd killed a child of mine."

And there's that card that hasn't been played yet, one that Kyrano and Jeff have in common. And, maybe without realizing it, it's one John has too—the same face, but a different suit. Kyrano knows Jeff well enough by now to be unsurprised as he lays his ace on the table, "John, you've been in a position where you've done the same kind of thing."

" _What_?"

And a fourth voice joins the conversation.

"He means what you've done for me, John."

EOS' voice is perhaps the most fascinating thing about her. Granted, Kyrano is aware he hasn't had much time to make an assessment of just what EOS actually _is_ —hasn't had time to slot the very possibility of her existence into his worldview—but the voice. That's really what gets his attention. The first time he'd heard it, the AI had also completely taken control of the vehicle he'd been at the wheel of, and forced him to the side of the German autobahn. He hadn't known what was happening and had been shocked, thrown off in a way that men of his profession are simply not supposed to be.

But then she'd drawn his attention immediately to his principle, wilting into unconsciousness in the passenger's seat. And then, still nothing more than a voice from the dashboard, informing him that John was in a state of acute cardiac arrhythmia and required aid. He hadn't even noticed. She'd made him feel his age, feel as though his sharpness was diminishing.

Her voice seems to have some measure of power over John, too, because his entire bearing changes at the sound of it. Something about him softens slightly, his fingers stop biting into his forearms, folded across his chest. Some of the fervour goes out of him, his tone grows slightly halting as he protests, "EOS, it's not—that was different."

"We've talked about this before," she goes on, and it's the way she sounds gentle when she speaks to him that seems most salient and yet she still pulls him up short. Last night, listening to the AI making her introduction to Jeff—at turns he would have called her playful, impish. There was an overall impression that she was unimpressed by the pair of them—two old men, sat in the dark, in awe of her—and probably had every right to be, given the fact that the balance of information seemed to fall heavily in her favour. It seems likely that that's as true for John as it is for anyone else, given the way she keeps his attention. "You did break your hand on the man's face."

Kyrano isn't a man who laughs much, and certainly never at the wrong moment. But this is new information and he permits himself a small smile and a relevant comment, "You're meant to keep your thumb out."

"Yes, _I know_ ," John snaps, and doesn't know how much he sounds like his father. Overhead, the clouds clear from the sky. "That doesn't make it right."

And in the next moment something strange happens. The balance of power shifts, something fundamental changes as John straightens, his hands dropping into fists at his sides, defiant. And Kyrano is no longer looking at a son seeing his father, but a father seeing his son. Because when John says, "No" he says it in such a way as to command the attention of the entire room.

And before Jeff can answer, his son sets his jaw and his shoulders pull just slightly back, a thousand tiny cues of body language shifting through him, the sorts of things a man like Kyrano is trained to watch for. It's with command, with righteousness that John continues, stern, "No,I'm not going to allow this to happen. Not your way. If it's a failsafe, then we won't fail. We'll do this now, and get it over with, and you'll tell Penny that she...that it was never supposed to happen. That you never meant it to be so long. It should never have gone so long. You should have come to me so much sooner than now."

Jeff is on his feet again, and two or three inches shorter than his boy. And unlike John, he's not in a fresh change of clothes, not recently rested. Kyrano would wager that he's possibly a little hungover.

Where the sunlight overhead finds all the brightness in John—the coppery color of his hair, the vivid green of his eyes, the high color of emotion in his cheeks—it paints his father in an unkinder light. Jeff's hair has long gone to grey at the temples, his eyes are crinkled at the corners and worry weighs heavily on his brow, lines his mouth. His portrait is a study in age and weariness.

And, unexpectedly, relief. Sudden, like light from some inward source, relief seems to bleed out of him, and once again he's a father seeing his son. Really seeing his son, perhaps for the first time.

"John," he says, and his voice is full of everything he sees, and everything he's said and hasn't wanted to be true. "John, I'm sorry."

And his son shakes his head as he answers, even as his father crosses the room to embrace him. "No," he says again, and Kyrano hears his voice break just a little, too, "this way you won't have to be. Dad. Dad, it's gonna be okay. We'll figure it out."


	7. the basic right of property ownership

He has to admit, it's nice not to be in charge.

Although, in fairness, he's not entirely sure who exactly that title falls to, just knows that his current inclination is to shirk out from under it. The rest of the day since the high point of drama in the late morning had been passed mostly in preparing to leave.

Theirs is a strange quartet, consisting of two distinct partnerships—John and EOS, Jeff and Kyrano—and the latter infinitely stranger, in John's mind, and this is allowing for the fact that he's embedded a super computer in his chest to accommodate a sentient AI. His father's bodyguard is a fixture in John's memory, but always in a strict, official capacity. When Kayo had been folded into the family, her father had resolutely kept his distance, kept things professional. It wasn't ever subservience, but there was a definite air of deference about him. A carefully delineated margin between employee and employer, and the definition of that relationship was always strictly held to, as a matter of course and a matter of preference.

No longer, apparently. Because if anyone's in charge, right at the moment, John thinks it must be Kyrano—even though now his father occasionally refers to him as "Ben", and Ben, in turn, speaks to Jefferson Tracy as though they're friends, equals—partners.

And their current course of action has Kyrano literally in the driver's seat, his father is dozing in the passenger's, and they're on their way to the airport, about twenty minutes out. EOS has made herself useful and made arrangements; three tickets, two flights: Munich to New York, New York to Vegas. John wonders if she has him retracing his steps on purpose. At the moment she's carefully reviewing available options as far as purchasable versus rentable spacecraft, because a commercial shuttle won't be an option this time around.

Half an hour to the airport. Nine hours to New York. Five hours to Las Vegas. A quick eight minutes into orbit and from there—well, John's not sure, but how hard can it be to find one satellite? If he had access to 'Five he doesn't doubt he could find the damn thing in an hour, now that he knows what he's looking for, regardless of whatever precautions his father's put in place.

And then—

Home.

And then everything changes.

It seems unwise to think that far ahead. To getting _home_ ; being able to relax, to relent, to stop running. Allowing himself to feel the extent of just what he's done to his brothers, and then getting to make up for it, by bringing his father home and putting his family back together.

And _then_ , once the dust has settled, back into the fray. Once more unto the breach. Back to that high rise office in New York, back to the high court of his father's empire, to take up the banner of his newly minted cause. And for the first time, the thought doesn't make his chest clench with dread, with the memory of how badly he'd failed the last time he'd tried to advocate for her. Whatever comes next, he'll have his father on his side.

But it's best not to think that far ahead.

Besides, there's plenty to pay attention to in the here and now, as a prim little chime rings from the sound system. "I've bought a rocketship," EOS announces, bright and chipper. "If everyone is very, very nice to me, I could be convinced to let you borrow it."

EOS helpfully provides the specs for the newly acquired shuttle in John's eye line and he gives her a brief nod of approval, chuckles to himself. "I can't fly a rocketship, you realize."

"I can tell you how to fly a rocketship," she informs him. "But then, that would require me to trust you with my rocketship, and I should rather not do that. It's brand new, after all. So, actually, I imagine I'll probably fly _my_ rocketship _myself_. You make a better passenger than a pilot."

" _Right_. Says the quintessential passenger."

It's still strange to talk to her aloud while other people are present. John wonders if she's playing up the playful aspect of her personality, trying to make herself congenial and non-threatening. The circle of people she's interacted with includes John's immediate family, but beyond that small circle, he realizes that her socialization is probably lagging behind some of her harder, sharper skills. Kyrano hasn't reacted, but John's father has stirred out of his half-doze, straightened in his seat, and now he clears his throat pointedly.

"Fairly sure I'm the only person present who's actually qualified to fly a rocketship," Jeff remarks mildly, and without quite meaning to, John finds himself pausing, waiting to see just how EOS bats that one back.

True to form, her tone is arch, blandly amused when she answers, "I don't believe there's any credential you could produce that would qualify you to fly _my_ rocketship, Mr. Tracy."

Jeff chuckles at that. "I don't believe _you_ have a license."

There's a soft huff of something that might be scorn from Kyrano, and the comment, "I don't believe she can own _property_."

John winces a little at that, aware of the fact that Kyrano ranks low on the list of "People EOS Likes", and that he's probably not improving his position. But EOS surprises him with a silvery little laugh. "I believe it's only by my sufferance that you're being permitted to drive the car, and that you're certainly not going to be allowed aboard my rocketship if you refuse to credit me the basic right of property ownership."

"I wasn't planning to be aboard anyone's rocketship, in any case," Kyrano answers evenly, and John can't help a faint smile at the way his hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel, as though that would make a difference. "That's beyond my sphere."

"Afraid of a little space travel?" EOS queries, and John wants to give her a warning, can tell she's deliberately probing towards something with which to needle at Kyrano. "Or are you afraid of me?"

John clears his throat prudently at that, interjects, "No one needs to be afraid of you," he chides.

"Let's not be disingenuous, John. Half of our problem is that people are afraid of me—of what I am. It does no good to pretend they have no reason to be."

There's a certain intensity to her, he gets the sense that she means to prove a point. He shifts in his seat, feels a little awkward now that both Kyrano and his father are listening, expecting him to comment. "Of _what_ you are—maybe. I guess I can get my head around that; it'd be lying to pretend I'm not well-versed in at least the ethical arguments. And counter-arguments. But _who_ you are is a different question. No one who got to know who you are would have any reason to be afraid of you."

"Debatable."

Kyrano again, and for the first time John feels a slight flare of temper in response. He glances briefly at his father, but Jeff has redirected his attention to the patchwork farmland, rolling past out the window as they cruise down the autobahn. John almost imagines there's a faintly amused smile playing about his lips, wonders if this is why he and Kyrano are friends to begin with. His father's always been fond of a good argument.

John hasn't really had the opportunity to really get his teeth into _these_ particular arguments since college, but it's starting to seem as though he could use the practice. " _Are_ you afraid of her?" he asks, tries to tamp down the note of challenge.

"Wary is probably a better word," Kyrano answers, and he glances briefly in the rearview mirror. There's no hostility in him and he'd chosen the word "debatable" quite deliberately. "She's just threatened to take control of my car," he points out. "I wouldn't care for that. _Didn_ _'t_ care for it, the last time she did so."

"Well, she probably doesn't care to be told she has no right to own a rocketship." John refrains from mentioning the fact that he's not sure _how_ exactly she's finagled herself the right to own a rocketship, but doesn't doubt for a moment that it'll hold up to whatever scrutiny it comes up against. He stops himself from meandering down the train of thought that's going to wind up with him, acting as power of attorney for someone who doesn't actually have a corporeal form, in the traditional sense. "But she doesn't need me to make her case on her behalf."

"No, I really don't," EOS agrees and maybe to emphasize her point, she gives a little twitch of the windshield wipers. "It also hasn't escaped my notice that Mr. Kyrano refuses to address me directly. So, if it's his idea of wariness to talk _around_ me rather than _to_ me, then I'll adopt the same manner. _He_ fears me because he doesn't understand me. _He_ doesn't understand me because he either hasn't _tried_ to understand me or because he is _very stupid_ —because in reality I am actually far from complicated. I'm sure _he_ would rather not be rendered down to a binary of either very lazy or very stupid, and if _he_ is offended by what he perceives to be an overly simplistic interpretation of his personality, well, _he_ can consider the fact that _I haven_ _'t tried very hard_."

Before Kyrano can even begin to reply, Jeff's started to laugh, loud and hearty and genuine, and it takes John a few minutes to realize that his face feels weird because he's grinning to the point that his cheeks hurt, and the warm, heartening feeling in his chest is a glow of pride; radiating out from the very core of him.

EOS permits a few moments of silence once Jeff's stopped laughing, before she comments, waspish, "Also, _he_ seems to be verging up upon male pattern baldness, and I'm _wary_ of bald people. In my experience they attempt to murder my partner and steal me for the completion of their own ends."

If she means it to be a joke, it has the opposite effect, sobering the tone of the conversation. Kyrano clears his throat and there's nothing argumentative in his tone as he says, "Well, if I've apologized to John, then I suppose I should also apologize to _you_ , for anything my brother might have done. I'm not sure how exactly he would have caused you harm, but if he has, I'm sorry."

"He hasn't, directly, but thank you," EOS answers, prim. She continues, charitably, "It may not be hereditary, anyway, perhaps yours is just a slightly receding hairline, common in middle to late age."

"One hopes."

John's still grinning as he gets another glance from Kyrano in the rearview mirror. It's still strange; still throws him off to hear her conversing with other people, but up through the strangeness, there's the sensation of hope bubbling up in his chest. There's a weird and wonderful satisfaction in seeing her interact with other people. Seeing other people get to know her. More than anything, John's starting to believe that this is going to be all it takes; just letting people get to know her. "Probably for the best if it's just me and Dad," he starts, and pulls up the specs for the shuttle EOS has chosen, glances over it again. "Looks like this thing only seats two people anyway."

"Well, I wasn't going to mention _that_." She seems a little defensive as she continues, "It was the best I could get, local to Las Vegas and at short notice. It's got a clean history and it's been decently maintained. It'll will serve for a single trip to orbit. And I won't _actually_ be able to fly it, its guidance systems are dated to the point that I would have more difficulty crafting a reasonable interface than I would ceding it to the margin of error allowed for by a human pilot." Another pause, and then, "No offense intended, Mr. Tracy."

"Oh, none taken," Jeff answers, dry and sardonic, but John can see him smiling. He finds himself wondering—hoping—that EOS can hear the amusement in his voice. "Was only a Colonel in the WWSA for twenty odd years. Flew thirty-four successful missions. Only been in and out of orbit about half a dozen times in the last three years, one reason or another. Flew to the moon and back. _Twice_. Still don't believe you've got a license, but you know. No offense."

She laughs again and John can't quite stop his hand from going to the place where his pacemaker sits, a gesture of affection that she'll never feel, but that he can't ever seem to help. "I don't, actually. I suppose you can be the pilot."

"I'll take very good care of your rocketship," Jeff promises solemnly. Kyrano changes lanes as a sign indicating the turn for the airport comes into view. "Least I could do. Seems like you've taken very good care of my son."

It's impossible to miss the note of pride in her tone as EOS replies, "Thank you, Mr. Tracy. I've done my best."


	8. a subtle edge of anarchy

He hasn't commented on the facial piercings.

More accurately, Jeff has deliberately refrained from comment on the facial piercings, along with a whole host of other things; the sorts of questions and comments about his son that would tumble and trip over each other on the way out in an attempt to gain precedence.

 _When did you get so damn tall?_

 _Were you always this skinny?_

 _You_ _'re nearly twenty-eight, your big brother is going to be thirty-two. Alan's almost twenty. How the hell did that happen?_

 _Are all of you so different from what I remember?_

Everything he wants to ask clamours at the back of his brain, abstracts him as he and his son and their bodyguard board their flight. He hasn't managed to find the right moment to ask any of it.

But they've got an eight and a half hour flight to sit through. Probably at least _some_ of it's going to come up.

Jeff's ensured that he and John have been upgraded to adjoining seats in first class, and that Kyrano has his preferred aisle seat, a row behind and across from wherever his principle is seated. Their seats are spacious and comfortable, and Jeff's well experienced in settling himself in for long flights. Oddly, for as accustomed as he is to commercial travel, he finds himself realizing that he'll be able to avail himself of his private jet once again, and hopefully sooner than later. It's the sort of unexpectedly pleasant prospect that keeps cropping up to surprise him. He turns to ask his son if Tracy-1 is still in operation, but catches himself at the edge of the question, concerned.

John's got the window seat, though he's pulled the shade down and tilted his seat back just slightly, his hands rest on the armrests and his eyes are closed. Jeff's not sure if it's the light within the cabin, but John seems perhaps a shade or two paler, and his breathing is slow and deliberate. They haven't taken off yet, though the rest of the passengers have boarded, and they'll be airborne shortly. Abruptly, Jeff feels a twist of concern in his chest and puts a hand on his son's arm. "John? You feeling okay?"

Green eyes snap open and John's immediately alert, dispels the first of his father's fears. "Fine," he answers and then offers a slightly sheepish grin by way of reassurance. "I, uh. I get a bit airsick. Sometimes. Usually only during takeoff. Should be okay once we're in the air."

"Airsick," Jeff echoes, incredulous, learning this about his son for the first time.

John shrugs. "I've only been back on Earth for a couple months. Happens on trains, in cars sometimes. EOS puts it down to just getting used to gravity again. Seems reasonable enough to me."

Jeff frowns, spares a moment's attention for the spiel being given by the flight attendants in the aisle. Nothing he hasn't heard before. "Seems to me you ought to be back to normal by now. Never took me quite that long to get readjusted. Few weeks at the most. You sure you're feeling okay?"

There's a slight jolt as the plane starts to pull away from the gate, begins to taxi towards the runway for takeoff. "I'm fine, Dad."

Added onto the pile of comments he's resisting the urge to make is the one regarding the fact that, according to Kyrano, John's had at least two minor cardiac events in the past three days, and has a diagnosed heart condition. And that a father can't help but be worried about that kind of thing.

Instead he just gives a nod and lets it pass. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Jeff leaves it alone for a few moments. But then this new piece of information starts to clash directly with the facts as they stand. It seems necessary to point out the obvious, "I feel like I should make mention of the fact that you're an _astronaut_."

A slight flush colours over the paleness of John's cheeks and he shrugs again. "Well, I don't get spacesick."

"I suppose that's some small consolation. I don't know, though. One of _my_ boys, with motion sickness? Seems unlikely. Your grandmother's always been the explanation for the red hair, but now I'm starting to wonder if you might be the mailman's."

As Dad-jokes go, this one is received with the appropriate scoff and roll of John's eyes, even as Jeff grins. It's good to know he hasn't lost his touch in that particular arena.

"Sure, Dad."

It's been a long time and admittedly his parenting skills are rusty, but as his son settles back in his seat and closes his eyes again, Jeff wonders if this is code for "leave me alone". If general motion sickness is new information about John, then the tendency to prefer people kept at arm's length is something that's always been true. Probably he and Kyrano have been trespassing past the boundaries of John's personal bubble a little more often than he's used to, these past few days.

They've hit cruising altitude and Jeff's idly preoccupied himself with the holoscreen in the back of the seat on front of him by the time John lets out a deep breath and sits up straight again. He pulls a tablet out from the bag beneath his seat, pulls an earpiece out of his pocket and puts it in his ear, and starts to page through assorted screens of data. The shade hiding the window comes up, and it's gotten late enough that the cabin lights have been left low. Moonlight silvers the tops of the clouds below them, and in the spaces between, flashes of gold illuminate cities and streets below. It's dark enough in the first class that the light from his tablet outlines his son's profile in sharp relief.

It's possible that what Jeff means to be a casual glance accidentally turns into a few too many seconds of scrutiny, because the reading light switches on overhead, and he finds himself on the receiving end of a _look_ from his son. And, reproachfully, "Dad, I'm all right. Really."

"I didn't say anything."

"Mm _hmm_."

It's going to be a long flight if this is going to be the tenor of their conversation.

So Jeff clears his throat and mentally reviews the list of topics available. Kyrano's never really been one for small talk, and it's possible that Jeff's skills as a conversationalist have suffered somewhat, with only his taciturn bodyguard for company. Most of what's pressing is too sensitive to discuss somewhere as public as a commercial flight.

Well.

"I wasn't sure if I should mention it, but it seems as good a place to start as any," Jeff leads, approximating something like caution as he gets his son's attention. "…just what the hell have you done to your _face_ , John Tracy?"

John blinks at this and his fingertips go to the barbell through the bridge of his nose, two silver rounds at the inside corners of his eyes. It's always been true about John that he's terrible at keeping his emotions from playing across his face. For a bare moment he seems surprised by the question. "…really?" he hazards, and almost sounds incredulous.

"Humour your father, I haven't had anyone to parent in a while."

"Are you concerned it might impact my job security?"

Jeff ignores the flippancy of this. "Why did you pierce your nose?"

"I didn't pierce my nose, I pierced the bridge. And it's a sensor bar so I can fine-tune the interaction with the HUD coded into my contacts." John touches his ear, indicates the slender bar that pierces his left ear in two places. "This is a secondary antenna. I was about ninety percent of the way talked into a bio-polymer labret with an integrated mic, but then the lady brought out a fourteen gauge needle and I decided I actually wasn't interested in having anything punched through my lower lip."

" _John_."

Apparently this is what happens when you leave your children to their own devices for three years.

John shrugs, knows it just as well as his father does."I think faking your death constitutes a forfeiture of your right to harangue me about what I do to my face."

"I'm not _haranguing_ you." It's strange how something like this can seem so utterly typical of his son and yet simultaneously so uncharacteristic. "Why, exactly, have you done anything at all to your face?"

"Dad, it's just hardware peripherals. Better integrated than most." For all that he's said he isn't angry, Jeff's starting to wonder if John might not be taking a certain vindictive pleasure in being cavalier about the things that might unsettle his father. "I didn't just decide to poke a few holes in my head for no good reason, it's all just utilities. Anyway, I'm twenty-seven, and it's _my_ face."

There's a peculiar sensation of deja vu, and Jeff remembers where he's had this argument before. "You're telling me this is like the time you stuck that magnet in your finger when you were fifteen."

John displays his hands, palms up, and Jeff's a little shocked by the scars that line his every other finger, pale gashes down his palms, faint ridges of white bisecting his wrists. "I've been through a few iterations of that. Brains did it for me, the last two times."

" _Brains_ did that to you. Brains is not a medical doctor. He's _fired_."

"Technically I don't think Brains works for _you_ , at the moment."

That's a fair point. And, if he's honest, this entire encounter has added up to far more points in his son's favour than in his own. "Has anyone else inserted anything into themselves that I should know about?"

"Grandma got her tongue pierced."

He can't help but laugh at that, catches sight of a brief flash of a grin from his son. It's another one of those unexpected realizations—and this one a bit more melancholy—that he's going to need to get to know all his boys all over again. Moments like these make him realize just how much his son has changed—how much they _all_ will have changed. In his memory, John is twenty-four, intent and serious. Mature, for his age, but the sort of maturity that still needed to be grown into, the sort that was still being put on, rather than simply exhibited. Three years have apparently done the trick, and it's with a strange sort of sadness that Jeff realizes his son's stepped across some threshold, become an adult in his absence. And beyond that— "I guess it's comforting to know that your own offspring deals about the same calibre of backsass."

Jeff's careful to talk around her, careful not to mention her by name or by function. Still, the word _offspring_ seems to confuse John for a moment, before he catches on. The levity goes out of him almost immediately, and suddenly he seems as serious, as intent as Jeff remembers. " _Oh_. Uh…no, I don't know that I—well, I mean, you're right about the backsass. But she's not…she's not a child. She's certainly not _my_ child. Not that I don't understand how you'd get that impression—I mean; it's one she perpetuates, deliberately, so that doesn't help—but she's…she's a lot more complicated than that. And I'm…I'm more responsible _to_ her than I am responsible _for_ her."

He'd only meant to lighten the mood, to rib his son right back about just how similar he is to EOS. It's not the time or the place to talk about it, and he clears his throat, slightly awkward. "Ah. Well, I meant no offense. Only meant to say that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

John doesn't quite let it go. "In this case the apple represents an entirely new paradigm in the way we classify plant life as a whole; including and not limited to the way we practice botany. The _tree_ is just the standard and most readily applicable template of something the apple _might_ be compared to, but in no way represents the limit to or the complexity _of_ just what the apple actually _is_. The apple in this case is probably more like an entire universe unto itself."

If nothing else, the single-mindedness seems like it's never going to change. And the doctorate in computer science is pretty much indelible.

A little defensive, not quite meaning to be, Jeff mentions, "I _have_ read your thesis, you know."

John chuckles at that and settles back in his seat again. "Yeah. Had occasion to go back over it recently myself. It's six years old by now and it makes me sound like a fanatic. Reads more like a manifesto than anything else. Granted, I was just about blackout drunk the last time I read through it."

"Oh, well…"

The fatherly urge to be charitable towards his son's self-deprecation (to say nothing of concern at his casual mention of severe intoxication) is cut off, pulled up short by what John says next, and by the brief, sudden glint in his eyes; and their bright, unnatural green.

"Still. Possibly it's the sort of cause that calls for a manifesto. Changing the world and all. I guess I haven't decided yet. I guess we'll see how it goes."

He'd mostly been joking about the piercings. But hearing his son throw the word "manifesto" around, casually, cavalierly, and like he necessarily associates it with a _cause_ —changes the context, slightly. Makes it necessary to add up the total of the implanted hardware—the piercings, the wired-in magnets, the computer in his chest that's potentially _killing him_ —the totality of it gives his son a subtle edge of anarchy that becomes suddenly a bit unsettling. It's probably not the sort of thing they should be talking about in public. Probably the sort of thing John's going to need to be grilled about, by his father, in private. And _soon_.

But not now.

So Jeff clears his throat again, casts about for a way to change the subject, and lands on a question he's been dying to ask. It's going to be an equally heavy topic, but for different reasons entirely. "Right. Well. I think this probably isn't the time or place to take that whole idea apart. But anyway, I've been…been meaning to ask—well. It's going to be a long flight, John, and I was hoping you might tell me about…ahh. About how things have been. Lately. Since I've been gone, I mean."

John's always been a little obtuse, when it comes to softer emotions. He misses the point initially, tilts his head slightly and asks, "…you mean with IR? Or…?"

"No." It's unexpectedly affective to reformat the query, and to say what he really means. A million more questions want to bleed out of him, but he renders them down, concentrates them into a single request. "Tell me about your brothers."


	9. the cadence of his footsteps

He still likes Vegas, but at the moment, after fourteen hours of air travel, he's still a little too disconnected from reality to actually appreciate it.

It's coming up on midnight coming out of the airport. Years ago, this would have been the hour when Vegas was at its loudest and brightest, but no longer. The lights of the cityscape are no longer a smear of neon points, there's no dull clamour of life and humanity, churning up and down the Strip. Instead, the city is quiet. The sun's been down for long enough for most of the heat to have left the dry air, and John's got a paper cup of coffee radiating warmth into his left hand, while his right clasps the strap of his shoulder bag, waiting outside for Kyrano to turn up with a rental car.

His father's standing a few yards away, similarly preoccupied, giving his son some space after fourteen hours at the slightly too close quarters of even first class air travel. He seems untroubled, anyway, sipping his own cup of coffee. This, John imagines, is black with two sugars and not-decaf. This is an irritating contrast to what his father's provided for him—which is decaf and a latte, besides, and carries the tacit implication that his father thinks he knows best. This flies in the face of the fact that John can _handle_ a little caffeine and is mildly allergic to dairy.

Parallel to the question of whether or not father knows best, John finds himself thinking about fail-safes.

Particularly, he's thinking about the fact that Penelope _isn_ _'t_ one, or anyway, that she shouldn't be. And that it might be getting to be time to think about a fail safe of his own.

It's strange—although maybe it's also fitting—to think that he's going back to the same place where he last saw Penelope. To the edge of the dried up bed of the former Lake Mead, to the spaceport where she'd set him about the task of finding his father. To the place where he has his last memory of her—of the way she'd seemed sad and hopeful at the same time; apologetic and anxious—it all takes on a new meaning now, knowing what waits in her future, what _she_ _'s_ been tasked to do. His father seems to have Penelope in mind as someone colder and harsher and harder than who John thinks she is. He's not sure if he's wrong, but he knows he doesn't want to be.

To that end, he swallows and glances at his dad, probably just far enough away to be out of earshot. Still, he keeps his voice low and careful as he murmurs, "...any luck?"

EOS seems regretful as she answers, "No. Lady Penelope has been curiously absent from the usual venues for the week so far. And FAB1 has remained rather conspicuously in the vicinity of Creighton-Ward Manor. I haven't managed to find a means to contact her personally. Her IR communicator returned no response."

"Secure line, too?"

"No response."

John chews his lower lip and refrains from cursing. The stakes are a bit too high to trust that a message left with Lord Hugh would reach her, and John's no longer sure if he has any other avenues. The prospect of going behind his father's back needles at his conscience—but lightly. Only on the surface, only in a way that makes him shift and fidget slightly, a prickle of discomfort. Not in the way that the idea of Penelope, killing in his father's name, stabs right to the heart of him and makes him feel cold and sick.

Because for all John's fervor and for all that Jeff had embraced him and apologized and seemed a little thunderstruck by the notion of John, seizing the moral high ground and pushing back—he still hadn't managed to sway his father into action, into calling Penelope off. Ultimately, John had only been able to make his father admit to regretting a necessary evil.

So John's just not going to let it happen.

And now they've burnt fourteen hours on air travel, eating into the deadline—keyword _dead_ —by which Penelope is meant to have murdered the Hood, and John's starting to feel like he's running out of time. Worse, he's starting to feel like he might be too late, and that's a thought that makes him dizzy and nauseous and a little shaken with dread.

John wonders if his father was ever so affected by the thought, but decides he doesn't actually want to know.

In a few minutes, Kyrano is going to pull up with the car. From the airport, it's a drive of about an hour and a half to Mead Spaceport. John doesn't know how long it'll take to acquire EOS' rocketship, to get equipped and prepped for what's hopefully going to be a quick trip into orbit—but he's not sure if he's likely to get much more time alone. Certainly it's going to be hard to find anywhere to snatch enough time for the plan burgeoning at the back of his brain. His father's nearby and John's got an excuse available to hand.

Literally, in this case.

"Uh, Dad?"

His father's head swivels and John's momentarily struck by the glint of grey at his temples, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner, the way his smile is tired. "Not long now," he says, off-handed and ignorant of what John's about to do. That light prickling of guilt bites just a little bit deeper.

"Yeah." John smiles, wonders if he looks just as wearied and worn out, hopes he doesn't. Hopes he looks convincingly apologetic as he holds up the cup of coffee his father had given him, and says, "...uh, is this...sorry, I should've said—uh, what with the dairy allergy? Me, I mean. Um, unless it's soy, I probably shouldn't—" He shrugs, sheepish again.

He can see the memory of the fact snapping back into his father's brain, like a light coming on, and the heel of his hand goes to his forehead. "Oh! Shit, John. Shoot, I mean. No, sorry. Damn. Slipped my mind. I'm sorry about that, son, it's been—"

It's been a really long time since John's allergies were any of his father's concern. "It's fine. Scott never remembers either."

Jeff frowns and then sighs. "I'm your father." There's a moment when he glances between John's cup of coffee and his own, but he hesitates and says, "I'd offer to swap, but you really need to stay away from caffeine in your condition."

"No problem. I'll run back in, I don't mind. Won't be long."

"We can stop on the way—" Jeff starts, but John's already hefted his bag at his shoulder, turned back towards the doors outside the baggage claim, and his father seems to pause, to reconsider, and to grow slightly embarrassed in his own right. "Be careful," he offers instead, and it seems a little non sequitur, a little detached from the fact that all John seems to intend to do is run back to the nearest Starbucks. "Make sure you stick to decaf. _Really_ , John."

Abruptly, John realizes that it's gotta be hard for a father like his, to let his only available son out of his sight, even for a few minutes. The thought twists at his conscience, starts to balance the scales between the weight of his sins versus the weight of his father's. Still. Needs must. John rolls his eyes, just a little, gives his dad a tolerant, if slightly cavalier sort of grin. "It's fine, Dad. I'll be five minutes."

"We'll be waiting."

John starts back towards the airport at a brisk trot. He can probably parlay five minutes out into ten, make the excuse that the fictional customer in front of him had a disproportionately complicated order, but he's still going to need time to find somewhere quiet, semi-secure, private. In his ear, EOS asks, "What are we doing?"

"Need to make a call."

The trouble is he doesn't know to _whom_. Has a few ideas. One good idea. Five _bad_ ideas. He gnaws his lower lip and looks around. The airport is crowded, naturally, and amid the bustle of people and luggage—holographic schedules for departures and arrivals—announcements booming over the loudspeakers overhead—of everything rushing this way and that, John can't help but start to feel a little disoriented. The quantity of information represents a minor overload, and John has to shake his head, rub his eyes and force himself to focus.

"Find me somewhere I can—"

"There's a restroom out of order on the concourse above, take a left after the escalator, you'll see the sign. Take care no one sees you."

"Got it."

Time seems to do something strange, seems to loop back and double over itself, as John slips inside the empty restroom. The door falls closed behind him and he blinks, and then finds himself jerked abruptly back to San Jose. The emptiness of white tiled space and the way the light isn't quite right, dim and half-powered. The wall of mirrors dominating the upper half of the leftward wall. The way the air smells slightly chemical, a weird sort of overlap between industrial cleaning solution and the remembered scent of disinfectant.

This is no time for deja vu. The version of himself in the mirror now isn't bloodied and wan, isn't the version of himself he'd been in San Jose, not all that long ago. But his time he's not alone and hurting and desperate, in the thrall of a powerful man, whose demands he needs to meet with in order to get what _he_ wants.

Or, well.

Anyway.

The most important thing is different, anyway, and EOS reminds him of the fact as she chimes softly in his ear, "Who do you need me to contact, John?" she prompts. "We should hurry."

John shakes himself out of it and takes a deep breath, mastering himself. "Yeah. Right, yeah. Uh, Catherine Cassidy."

"It may take me a moment."

He nods into the mirror, manages a smile. "Thanks."

He starts to pace the room. It's quiet, cut off from the noise of the airport outside and he can hear the cadence of his footsteps, tries to settle into a deliberate rhythm as nervous motion eats up the minutes, remind him that he's being waited for, expected to return. Whatever the strength of John's convictions, he's still going behind his father's back; it's still an active betrayal of his father's trust. There's a part of him that's been keeping a quiet, running tally of all the lies that have run through this entire affair. His father has him beaten in the arenas of magnitude and duration, but John's pretty sure they belong in the same league. He's not sure just how his actions are going to line up respective to their consequences. At the moment, more than anything, the thought just makes him feel tired.

Another soft tone rings in his ear and EOS sounds uncannily like his personal secretary as she announces, "I have Ms. Cassidy waiting, John."

"Okay." A moment of silence and John hears the click of the line connecting. And then, "Hello? Ms. Cassidy?"

Hers is a voice of smoke and caramel. Heated. She doesn't sound immediately pleased as she says, "Mr. Tracy. Whoever your PA is, you're going to want to offer her a substantial bonus. I'm currently on vacation with my wife and daughter, and I'm meant to be _nearly impossible_ to get hold of."

A little thrown off by her irritation, John blinks. "Oh. Uh, sorry. Ma'am, I'm sorry. I just—needed your help, and I—"

There's a short, sharp breath. "Wait. John? John Tracy, is that you?"

"...Yes?"

"Where are you? Are you all right?" Caramel and smoke dissolve, and there's suddenly steel in their place. John wouldn't have pegged Catherine for a mother, but he's reminded of his own as she presses, stern and imperative, "Are you somewhere safe? John, answer me."

He swallows and ignores her questions, asks his own, "Do you know where Lady Penelope is?"

"No. Never mind Penelope. John—"

The urgency in her voice, is playing hell with his nerves, ratcheting up existing anxiety. There's a disconnected memory of the young man from the mirror in Munich, and the way _he_ _'d_ been confident and at ease and unruffled, the way calls like this were once his _job_. He bulls ahead with the conversation. "I need someone to find her. She's...there's—she needs help. Someone needs to find her, she's—I can't talk about it. But she's in trouble. If you can find her—"

"John, your family is looking for _you_. Your brother tells me you're not in good health and that you need to be found, need to get help."

"I saw Scott's interview—"

Catherine's pause is weighted. "Scott came to me very, _very_ afraid for you, John," she says, and her voice has softened, grown gentle, almost imploring. "Are you safe?"

This was supposed to be the _good_ idea. He just needs to stay on track, make his point clear. "You _need_ to find Penelope. Get a hold of Penelope, she needs—"

"John, listen to me—"

"I have to go. Find Penny."

EOS drops the call before Catherine can say a further word and immediately, sterner and sharper than Catherine had been, "John, _breathe_."

"I'm fine," he answers automatically, but it's in the same moment that he realizes he's stopped pacing at some point and that his hands are white-knuckled at the edge of the counter that runs the length of the room and that he's shaking. Back when he'd thought he'd have more time, he'd considered replacing his coffee with a proper two shots of espresso, a shot of sugar free caramel. Now he dumps the contents of the paper cup out, rinses it out with trembling hands and fills it with tepid water, swallows half of it and doesn't feel better.

Data appears in his field of view, numbers he can't immediately apprehend, until she tells him what he's looking at. "John, I'm concerned about your heart rate. I'd like you to sit down for a moment. I'm going to let Mr. Kyrano know where—"

He shakes his head, glances in the mirror. The good idea hadn't panned out quite the way he'd hoped it would. The bad idea is meant to be a back up, and now it's starting to be necessary. "Can't. One more call, and then I'll go. My Dad's waiting, I just..."

John's not sure if he imagines her irritation with him, her impatience. "Fine. Where?"

He sets the paper cup aside, takes a deep breath, steadies himself. If Catherine Cassidy had thrown him off, he needs to brace himself. Needs to be perfectly, completely in control of this next call. "Tracy Island."


	10. apocalyptic fuckhead

He should know better than to answer a call to the Tracy Island's main comm from an unknown number.

Calls to the main comm should come almost exclusively from TB5 and a handful of other trusted sources—Colonel Casey, Lady Penelope, Tracy Industries HQ. The icon that flashes up in the middle of the room is even bright red, a big cautionary question mark, represents a warning. Represents the possibility that someone has breached the protocols put in place to prevent any unauthorized contact with the Island's secured comm network, and more importantly, the banks of servers and data centers that serve as the central control for the Thunderbirds.

Gordon sits up from where he'd been lounging on the couch, and plans to answer it anyway.

Because it's early evening, he's bored and in reserve, and he's alone on the island, so it's not like anyone else is going to.

Or, well. Not technically alone, but for all intents and purposes, anyway, given that his options for company include Brains, who's more or less embedded himself in his lab; Kayo, who _still_ deserves an apology that he _still_ hasn't given her; and Grandma, who's recent habit of a seven-thirty bedtime and slow slide into a state of uncharacteristic reserve is the sort of thing that makes Gordon just _hurt_ inside, in a sharp, way-deep-down sort of way. It's hard to be around Grandma with wanting to hug her and just cry for an hour or two.

This is a thing he can't tell if she'd benefit from, so he's gone out of his way not to stray too close.

Anyway, hey, maybe it's Penny.

It's been nearly twenty-four hours since she'd called him, with her cryptic (okay, actually fairly explicit, but Gordon's not above a little self-deception) statements and that borderline tearful catch in her voice and the way she'd said goodbye, left him to lie awake for nearly the entire night. Gordon's really, really hoping to hear from Penny.

The call connects. It's just an audio channel, there's no visual to accompany it, except for that bright red question mark, still indicating that maybe this is a bad idea.

There's no immediate answer, just a slightly scratchy silence and the soft sound of breathing. Something about the quality of this particular silence makes Gordon wonder if maybe he's just done something supremely, incredibly stupid. He's already seized the comm control and is keying in Brains' extension, hoping that the engineer is available to undo whatever potentially massive security breach he's just exposed the island to—and as an afterthought, regarding matters of security, he guiltily pings Kayo for good measure.

Then the silence is broken—shattered, more accurately, by a voice that's quiet, a little bit hushed and cautious and secretive, and really not of any particular quality that should so violently break a silence.

"Hello?"

Gordon's been hearing that voice in his ear for the past five years.

There've been dark, awful moments of dread over the past few months, where he's wondered if he'd ever hear that voice again.

There's really only one thing Gordon wants to say in answer to this particular voice.

Only, if there's only one thing he wants to say, it's not the thing he should say. There are actually quite a lot of things he _should_ say and they all go railroading to the front of his brain, vying for the tip of his tongue, and freezing him into shock and borderline disbelief at the fact that, after everything— _everything_ —he's put them through, John has the temerity to _call_ and say something as trite and insipid and insulting as _hello_.

So instead, Gordon's brain short circuits, and he says the thing he'd _wanted_ to say, "You apocalyptic _fuckhead_ , where the _fuck_ are you?"

Another pause and the crashing realization that harassing his brother is probably the quickest way to get this call dropped. The realization that _maybe_ John's actually legitimately in trouble and can't speak freely. Maybe there's a gun to his head, maybe he's in a cell somewhere, maybe this is a call for ransom. There's been a precipitous uptick in Gordon's heartrate and he has to wipe his palms on the legs of his jeans and swallow, hard, to get past the knotted feeling in his throat, as John says, "Gordon, I don't have a lot of time."

"What the hell does that mean? John— _fuck_ —John, are you okay?"

Gordon's already pinged Kayo's comm another eight times—it'll be ringing on her wrist like crazy and if that doesn't get her up here to chew his ass out, nothing will. He adds a priority flag to another alert to Brains, just as he sees the engineer's icon blink on in the bottom corner of the transmission, feels a flutter of relief. John still hasn't said anything, so to bring Brains up to speed, he tries again,"John. Johnny, what's—tell me if you're okay. John?"

John pauses again and Gordon tries to read something relevant in the silence—whether someone else is talking, muttering in John's ear, whether his breathing is at all uneven, whether there's anything to betray a lie as John answers, "I'm fine. I need—"

"Where are you?"

"I can't say."

Brains has taken over control of the connection, the icon floating above the central comm has been ringed around in blue, and there's a variety of data starting to cascade in the background. He's attempting to loop Alan into the call, but Alan's managing dispatch for Scott and Virgil, who are helping deal with flooding in Madagascar. Gordon would have gone along too, but the two and a half hours of restless sleep he'd logged the night previous had disqualified him from pod duty, Alan had ratted him out, and Scott had grounded him til he was properly rested. He'd left before there could be a fight about it.

Turns out maybe that's lucky.

He hears Kayo shout from the floor below, "Gordon, you'd better be caught under a bookcase when I get up there, I was in the middle of—" Kayo's footsteps on the stairs up from the kitchen are loud, angry, but she stops immediately when Gordon springs to his feet and manages to pantomime something that seems to convey that she needs to keep quiet. He points to the icon above the central comm and then, loudly, " _Bullshit_ , John."

Another of those pauses. Kayo's eyes widen and she jogs down the steps into the lounge, stands next to Gordon and peers at the data Brains is trying to pull from the call. Gordon can't make head or tail of it, but then—

"I won't, then. Gordon, I'm not calling about me. I need someone to find Penelope. She's in trouble."

Gordon's not aware that he's sat back down until he feels Kayo's hand on his shoulder and realizes that he has to look up at her. She jerks her head at the icon, prompts him to continue in the same moment that John says, "…Gordon?"

"…is that true?"

It occurs to him suddenly that these long pauses all occur on about the same interval—three or four seconds—and that John's reactions are always just a little out of true for the time that they take. There's a time delay. Gordon's used to time delays, TB4's comms are the worst for them. There've been times when there are as many as ten seconds between what he says and what John hears, and vice versa. He's not sure what it means, but he makes a note of it. John's tone is urgent as the delay passes, and, "What? Of course it's—this is important. Gordon, I need you to find her, she—"

He can't interrupt, but as John finishes, Alan's hologram flashes up. His expression is as grim as Gordon's ever seen it, his blue eyes like flint. He lifts a hand and scribbles with his fingertip in the air, leaves a rendered line of text, "TALK. TRACING CALL."

"—'s gotten herself involved with something…I can't give you the details, but just—Gordon. It's important."

John can't see him, can't see the way Gordon rolls his shoulders, shoves himself back to his feet. Kayo's hand goes from his shoulder to around his elbow, deliberate, careful restraint, like she can feel the anger starting to tense through his muscles, the way his hands clench into fists. "Yeah? _Fuck you_. You goddamn liar, John, you punched a hole through our fucking family."

Four- three - two - one—"…I know. I know that, and I'm sorry. It was— _find Penelope_. Find her and tell her that I…that I did what she asked. That she can stop. Gordon, I need you to _stop her_."

He doesn't know what the hell that could possibly mean, but he can't be diverted by it. It's still hard to say, still makes his stomach twist and his back ache when he heaves a deep breath and presses on,"Penny…Penelope lied to us about _you_. And _she_ _'s_ not our goddamn problem right now, _you are_. Whatever she's…whatever she dragged you into, John, just—just _tell us_. We'll help. Whatever it is, if it's something with EOS, we'll figure it out. _Where_ _are you_? Why the hell are you doing this, John?"

Scott's comm starts flashing and Kayo's hand leaves his arm, she jumps nimbly up the stairs to their father's desk and routes it to a secondary line. Gordon can hear her voice behind him, low and urgent, but John speaks again. This time there's a noticeable tremor in his voice, a break, "I…it's not mine to say. But it's…Gordon, I swear, it'll be worth it. All of it, I promise, it's…please. Trust me. I'm sorry. I promise, this'll all be over soon. On _Mom_ , Gordon, I _swear_."

Alan flashes up again and rapidly spells out "ONE MORE MINUTE", but Gordon doesn't know if he can manage that. He's short on sleep and he'd already been keyed up about Penelope, and the idea of even talking to John—here and now and like this and after _everything_ —he has to take another deep breath before he even manage to come up with something he hasn't already asked, "Why did you call? Why now?"

Four seconds. John seems to have mastered himself slightly, there's steel in his tone again. "Find Penny."

There's no way in hell John can know what he's doing, throwing her name around like that. Can't know that Gordon just keeps hearing her say " _Goodbye_ ", again and again and again. "Why?"

Three, two, one. Total of something like ten seconds down, eating into Alan's one more minute. "She…she's going to do something. Something really wrong. She doesn't know it's not necessary. Don't let her."

 _You were wrong about me_. This tracks so well with the conversation that's still replaying itself in the back of Gordon's brain that he feels the desperate need to throw up. He shakes his head, muscles past it, hopes his voice doesn't betray the way he's been shaken, "She cut all contact, how the hell d'you think we'll find her?"

Gotta be twenty seconds now. He wishes Alan would have thought to put up a timer, Gordon's only good with numbers when he can _see_ the numbers. Used to play hell with him in the pool, even though he's long since past the ability of posting times that mean anything any more. Seconds stretch out. It's probably not more than five before John responds, "Catherine Cassidy."

"…The reporter? She's supposed to be helping us find _you_ , why the hell would she—is she in on this? John, man, c'mon—"

He wishes he didn't know it needed to be a minute. There's no way in hell it's going to be a minute. Three more seconds and, "I need to go. Gordon, I'm—"

"No! John— _please_. Just…just what the hell is this about? Johnny, come on, please, we—"

Four more seconds. There's something that might almost be a laugh, something soft and sad and self-recriminating. It's not going to be enough. Maybe it doesn't have to be. Maybe Alan's going to figure it out anyway.

Five, four, three, two—"Gordon." Something about John's voice that jerks Gordon back— _years_ back—to the last time John made him feel like this, all twisted up and angry and sick inside.

"There's only one thing that _anything_ we've done has ever been about, Gordon."

And the call drops in the same moment Gordon does, his knees hitting the floor with an impact he's gone too numb to feel.


	11. the other l-word

He can get halfway around the world in less than an hour, but it doesn't _matter_ if he doesn't know where he's supposed to be going.

Scott's got Kayo and Virgil on the line, and he's broken off, pulled up high and away from where he'd been spotting for Virgil, to wait for a heading. He keeps catching himself holding his breath ever since Kayo had first filled him in, and now he keeps needing to remind himself to draw even, steady breaths through the tension of waiting.

They're in Madagascar and for the first time in what feels like ages, this is an _actual_ emergency, with lives on the line. It's not quite as simple as just taking off, though Virgil's already sworn up and down that he can manage on his own, if necessary. Scott desperately hopes that it's going to be necessary. His 'Bird feels just as twitchy and restive as he does, hovering at altitude with nowhere to go. But if Alan can get him a location, then Scott can just _get there_ , and it'll be the closest they've been to John in weeks. They'll finally have something to go on.

Except—

"No," Kayo says, and Scott winces as she sighs, sees the slight slump of her shoulders, and the way her hologram turns back to face him. She shakes her head. "No, no luck, Alan couldn't quite get it. There was a pretty significant lag in the audio, might've been whatever he was doing to encrypt the call."

"Fan _tastic_ ," And then, exploding out of him with the force of just how frustrating this is, "God _damn_ it! Fucking _John_!"

There's silence on the comm link, though Scott has the sense that it's a silence of mutual vexation. Neither Kayo or Virgil are annoyed at the outburst. It's Virgil who speaks first, "Well, _now_ what?"

Scott's hands tighten on TB1's controls and he allows himself a few moments of black, bitter disappointment before he takes a deep breath and assumes command of the new situation. "Get me an audio log of the call. Kayo, tell Alan to…god, I don't know…to keep trying, I guess. Maybe between him and Brains they can get us _something_ to work with."

"FAB, Scott. I'll be right back."

Kayo's hologram flashes onto hold and Scott addresses Virgil, "Thunderbird Two, I'm gonna disengage and head back to the island, see if there's anyone we can reach out to, see if anyone has any new information. Maybe we're not the only people he called."

There's a rare note of discouragement in Virgil's tone, and it's not with his usual crispness that he answers, "FAB, Scott. I'm gonna…I'll switch onto the GDF's main channel, let them know I'm still available, but that you've had something come up."

This is probably something Virgil's best equipped to handle, with his diplomatic streak and patience that stretches for miles. Scott still can't help sparks and flares of irritation with the GDF from time to time, and impatient and thwarted as he has been, now's not the best time for him to engage with some uppity GDF Lieutenant-Colonel. "We're going to work this out, Virg. This isn't…it's not a setback. This is something to go on. Do what you can, I'll keep you in the loop."

Virgil nods curtly, but Scott knows him well enough to know that—if there's nothing he can do about John—he's going to want to go back to managing a situation where he _can_ have an impact, and bury himself in the work. "FAB, Scotty. Call me if you need me."

"You got it, Virgil."

With the situation on the ground in hand, Scott brings TB1 around and sets his flightpath for Tracy Island. He doesn't pour on the same hammer-down speed he would have, if he'd gotten John's location, but he's still heading for home at about Mach 10. It'll be about an hour, but he's going to do everything he can to keep managing the situation from the air

Kayo reappears as Virgil drops off and Scott preempts her, asks, "How did he sound?"

"Brains is cleaning up the audio for you now. Gordon took the call, did his best to keep him on the line, but—" She trails off and shakes her head and Scott can see her chewing her lower lip. "Encryption or not, I think John knew he needed to keep it short. So it's hard to say. There was nothing that made me think he was in direct danger; nothing like distress or pain. Maybe like he knew he shouldn't have called. He mostly talked about Penelope, insists that something's going on with her, wouldn't specify."

Scott's strategy for dealing with Penelope has been to box the London Agent out, revoking all of her security permissions for International Rescue's major systems. Any call she might have made to the island would have been flagged, marked as a breach, and if answered; would then have been recorded in full. Despite everything, he _has_ heard both sides of the argument—and he knows that whatever's going on with Penelope, there's more to it than there seems. This is the first indication they've had that it might be something they need to get involved with. "I don't like the sound of that."

"No, I don't either. Hang on, Brains is uploading the audio now, I need to talk to Gordon."

There's a ping from his wrist as the file arrives. "Got it, Kayo. Thanks. I'll touch back in a couple minutes."

"FAB, Scott."

He closes the channel, and queues up the audio file.

It's possible that Scott hadn't quite realized just how long it's been since he'd heard John's voice, and how the sound of a single, tentative "Hello?" would shock through him, a rush of sudden anxiety and hope and familiarity and relief, that his brother's still out there, somewhere.

Gordon's response is so accurate a mirror of the other, less affectionate and far less palatable half of Scott's feelings about John that it's impossible to stifle a snort of laughter. Good old Gordon. He'll be glad to know he got a laugh.

And as the call carries on, Scott finds himself wishing more than anything he could have been there. Not that he thinks he could have done any better than Gordon, but just that he could have done _something_.

He listens to the recorded call once, twice. Stops himself from playing it a third time and tightens his hands on the throttle. Initially Mach 10 had seemed like it would be good enough. But it doesn't take long before Scott starts to get impatient, because it never does. Then, because the _hell_ with it, he dials his engines up, doubles his speed, and puts the hammer down. It's about time something got done.

* * *

Kayo watches the globe above the desk, as Scott's ETA flickers from an hour down to about half that time. Not surprising.

Brains and Alan are busy poring over the data they'd scraped from John's call, but Kayo's not holding out a lot of hope. John's entirely too smart not to know exactly what the island's capabilities are, and exactly how to circumvent the combined powers of both Brains' and Thunderbird Five, and if he'd go so far as to break his silence in order to make contact, then the matter has to be serious. At the moment, it seems like a better strategy to work with what they've got.

Right now, she's got an explicit warning about Lady Penelope, so at the moment, that's the priority.

And she's got Gordon. At the moment, he's slumped on the couch with his head in his hands, and tension radiates off him like heat. Kayo circles out from around Jeff's desk, takes the steps down into the lounge and drops onto the couch next to him. Uninvited, she puts a hand between his shoulder blades and pats his back gently. For the barest moment he shivers slightly at the contact, but then sighs and seems to settle.

It's Virgil who everyone credits with understanding how best to deal with Gordon, and so it's the sort of thing that's become just another one of Virgil's responsibilities. But it's always been Kayo's conclusion that this is a little bit of laziness on everyone else's part, because it's not as though it's actually _hard_ to deal with Gordon, just emotionally demanding. Gordon at his best is as calm as clear water, but at his worst is turbulent, threatens to drag all but the sturdiest below the surface, down into the depths of whatever he's feeling.

If Virgil's method is to stand against him, then Kayo's is to ride the wave.

They're two weeks apart, her and Gordon. The gap is such that she's a Pisces to his Aquarius—not that Kayo would ever admit to a family of pilots, engineers, and hard science majors that she occasionally checks her horoscope and hopes that the attitude of Venus might have an impact on the ease of her relationships on any given day. And not that it matters. What _matters_ is that they're the same age, they're part of the same family, they do the same job, and right now they've got the same problem. And the best way to deal with Gordon is to try and feel what he feels; to turn _on_ the same empathy that he can't ever quite seem to turn _off_.

So.

"All right," Kayo starts, and elbows Gordon in the ribs. "Hey. We'll figure this out, Gordon. Come on. Let's talk. You okay?"

Kayo's well aware of the fact that this is a dangerous question to ask of this family, generally, but at least with Gordon one can reliably expect an honest answer. His shoulders heave slightly as he takes another deep breath and shakes his head. "No. _Nope_. Really kinda not."

As though she would have asked if it wasn't obvious. She leans her weight against his shoulder, offering comfort in contact. "That had to have been hard."

He nods and for whatever friction has existed between them lately, they've both let it fall away. Bigger problems, at the moment. "Yeah. I wish Scott had been here. _Christ_ , fuck, as though John was ever going to listen to _me_. I should've—"

Kayo interrupts, "I think you're the only who would have taken that call. You weren't supposed to, it's a basic breach of security. John would have known that. I bet he meant to leave a message."

It's possible that Kayo's the only person for whom this is an obvious conclusion, but beside her Gordon perks up and the first edge of righteous anger starts to cut through the aftermath. "That _jackass_."

In spite of herself, Kayo smiles grimly. "Threw him off. He probably said more than he meant to."

The suggestion gives Gordon pause, makes him glance up at the central console again, doubtful. "I dunno about that. John's… I mean, he's smarter than I am by a long shot. And he's _clearly_ demonstrated the capacity to manipulate all of us. Do you think…d'you think he was just fucking with me? Mentioning Penny? Trying to keep me from asking about where _he_ is?"

There's a note of treacherous hope I his tone. He's asking because it's what he wants to be true. Kayo finds herself feeling the sting that goes along with tuning into Gordon's wavelength, feeling what he feels. "No. Obviously that was the crux of why he called. He couldn't have known you'd answer, and beyond that, John's dense enough about _that kind of thing_ that I doubt he'd have known it'd get to you…how it did."

"Does," Gordon corrects, and his shoulders fall again. Impulsively he shrugs away from her hand on his shoulder, shifts to his feet and stands up. There's nervous energy in him now, pacing the floor like he wants to wear a hole in the carpet. Frustration and anxiety and doubt and indecision all play plainly through him, because Gordon's heart is always handily pinned to his sleeve. " _God_ , Kayo. The people I love keep _lying_ to me, and I just—"

"Whoa," Kayo interrupts, pushing herself to her feet and catching his shoulders, stopping him. Partially to get him to calm down, partially to get a proper look at him. "L-word," she comments, surprised.

He looks immediately abashed and backtracks further than he needs to, goes all the way back to something he's probably been meaning to apologize about for ages. "Shit. I never should've called you a liar, Kayo, I'm an ass. I'm sorry. It was just…with John and everything, I just—"

"The _other_ L-word, Gordon."

"…Oh." In the middle of all the anguish, there's something especially telling about the way his jaw sets, the way he gets a little bit defensive and the way colour floods across his cheeks. "Yeah. Well…yeah. So?"

This time Kayo grins at him and folds her arms, gives him a look.

" _What_."

This is the place where a punch on the shoulder belongs, and Gordon gets one. It's tempered by the fact that he's just apologized for having been an ass, _and_ admitted to being in love. He still curses under his breath and rubs his shoulder, backs a few feet away. It also demands some sisterly teasing."I suppose anyone _you_ _'d_ fall in love with can't be _that_ bad. I suppose we'd probably better go get her."

Gordon blinks, then looks immediately doubtful. "Scott'll never…"

Kayo cuts him off, takes charge. "Scott knows that right now she's the only real link we have to John. It's probably about time we engaged with her again, and if something's happened—if something's changed that would prompt him to reach out, then better sooner than later. We're not just going to leave this alone, Gordon. John said to reach out to Ms. Cassidy. That's where we'll start, and I don't think I'm wrong about the fact that you've got a bit of a rapport with her. Then we'll figure out what our next move is. You'd better go suit up. You're riding with me."

There's a glimmer of hope in him again—real this time. "Yeah…I mean, I guess, yeah. D'you think she'll…wait, though. What, riding with you? You mean…?"

"Well, wherever we're going, I don't think we're taking Putt Putt."

This time the high colour in his cheeks is a flare of indignation. " _Putt Putt_."

This is a nickname for 'Four that hasn't come out since the last time Gordon was able to give her shit about the fact that Shadow was so stealthy as not to even _exist_ yet. She's going to need Gordon, though not entirely for the reasons she says. "I'm going to need you along, at least partially to keep me from slapping her in the face when we find her."

" _Kayo_."

"You've been an ass, _she_ shut me in the Tower of London, and I'm starting to think the pair of you are a matched set, when it comes to annoying me. So I'm getting mine back," Kayo tells him. Part of the trick with Gordon is knowing how to play him, how to warp and wend his mood around whatever one needs from him. Right now she needs him a little bit spun up, a little bit defiant, because she's going to need him for backup. There was a kiss in a dark, damp subway tunnel, on the front of a London tabloid, and Kayo knows what a secret weapon looks like. In this case, blond, five-ten, and still blushing, in board shorts and a t-shirt that proclaims him the World's Okayest Surfer. "You, me, Shadow. Appropriately, you'll be riding bitch. Soon as we know where we're heading, Gordon, Thunderbirds are _go_."


	12. nothing to kill but time

He's the one who'd told her to come to Bangkok, and so that's where Lady Penelope is.

She wishes it could have been somewhere less vibrant. Some old Soviet city, all sharp lines and brutalism. Or somewhere dense and damp, Eastern European, with narrow streets to hem her in, keep her from feeling the life all around her. She wishes it could have been somewhere harsher and harder, somewhere as grey and empty and tired as she feels, somewhere as grim as the task at hand.

"The task at hand" seems such a sanitized term by which to refer to murder, but then, perhaps that's the trick of it. Perhaps it takes a certain bleaching of the language in one's mind—denaturing words like "kill" in favor of words like "liquidate". A one step removal from the reality—Penelope will execute a task rather than execute a man. She has an assignment, a deadline.

Though in the interest of sanitizing language, she's decided she prefers to think of it as a due date.

But then, rendered in those terms, even the notion of a due date seems silly. The formality of waiting a year—the idea that she should wait until the eleventh hour for a reprieve that isn't coming—childish, really. So she'd gotten a flight to Bangkok. Commercial. Economy, even. It had taken her nearly a day of travel, but she hadn't wanted to be noticed leaving the country. She's not certain that seventeen hours spent between planes and airports has done her any favours.

Arriving in Thailand had been like seeing the world in colour again. Something about this part of the world always seems so much more alive, so much more real than London. Bangkok is the sort of place that makes her wish she were traveling for leisure. She'd left the airport and been seized by the urge to lose herself in the city; to abandon her appointed task and just vanish. Jeff Tracy had. Then John. It's John whose absence nettles at her conscience, makes her wonder if she hadn't been foolish and desperate, enlisting his help. But then, maybe she'd only given him an excuse, when he had a reason to want to disappear anyway. Wherever he is, she hopes he's safe. Hopes her current course of action might help make him safer.

Because instead of having disappeared into the heat and color of the city, she sits on the patio the tea room behind her hotel, with a pot of oolong and a semi-private table, looking out over the streets beyond. She's not sure how long she'll have to wait, pretends to occupy herself with a book and a plate of sticky sweet desserts that she's only nibbling at.

There'd been the option of a black ensemble—a slice of darkness to suit her mood—but it had seemed melodramatic. Instead, defiantly, she's chosen a dress of pure, subtle ivory, with neckline and collar that highlight her clavicle and expose her throat, the teardrop gold pendant she wears. It hugs every curve of her figure, but demurely. The sleeves, even cuffed, cover her elbows, the skirt flares slightly around her knees. She hopes to look the very picture of innocence for the man she waits to meet.

Further, she hopes that this would represent an advantage in concealing her intent to murder him.

Still, for all the effort she puts into casual dissemblance, when the phone in her purse rings, Penelope nearly jumps out of her skin.

She feels absolutely and utterly foolish, and her cheeks flush with warmth as she fumbles in her bag for her slim silver phone. Her personal number, known to a list of people she could count off on her fingers. Her father. Parker. MI5. Her liaison to the GDF. One or two trusted friends. Jeff Tracy.

Even from such a short list, she's a little surprised (and more than a little disappointed) by the caller ID, and needs to take a moment to steel herself, to steady her nerves and square herself up to the call, to sounding like herself.

"Catherine, darling. What a pleasure to hear from you."

Catherine's voice is bright, cheerful. "Penelope! I've had the most devilish time getting a hold of you. How are you?"

"Oh, very well, thank you. And you? Vacation with the family, I'd been lead to understand. I hope Marienne and Lorette are keeping well."

"All simply lovely, Penelope. _Do_ let me tell you about Trinidad. Have you been? "

She hasn't, and for a while it's pleasant to lose herself in the wash of conversation, letting Catherine carry on about the sun and the surf and the beach and the weather, and music and food and culture and everything good and bright and beautiful about Trinidad and how much her wife and daughter are enjoying themselves.

Penelope asks the right questions, laughs in the right places, and plays along with the role. It passes time. It's nice and innocuous and diverts her thoughts. Catherine is an old friend and has a delightful family, and if Penelope permits herself, she can achieve the genuine interest and attention that a conversation with Catherine deserves.

But eventually, Catherine swings the conversation around to what must have been her intended line of inquiry. "You'll have to forgive me, Penelope, dearest. But Lorette has a dreadful obsession with the tabloids, and there's a certain picture of you in a certain flooded subway tunnel, and I'm afraid she's gone and drawn hearts all over it. Apparently so has half the nation. Tell me, is the sudden week of absence incidental or _coincidental_ with a kiss from Gordon Tracy?"

There probably isn't a worse topic possible. Penelope feels heat rush to her cheeks and her sigh of frustration slips out before she can stop it, before she can settle on an appropriate attitude for dealing with the question. It is, unfortunately, the sort of question Catherine is perfectly within her rights to ask—possibly Catherine is one of the only people in Penelope's life who'd have license to ask it. "No. I mean, that's hardly even a fragment of the reason. It's hardly as though I can be seen in _anyone_ 's company without some rag picking it up, and insisting I'm engaged or have been secretly married or am wearing an empire waist because I'm three months pregnant. Nothing new under the sun."

"Darling," Catherine says, but with nothing but sisterly sympathy. Or, almost nothing. Aside from the sympathy there's that razor-edged journalistic insight, precisely the sort that one doesn't really want playing sharp over one's personal relationships. Catherine's voice is honeyed as she says, "Only, one notes that you were _not_ under the sun, but in a flooded subway tunnel under London, and there isn't a paparazzo out there with the luck or the cunning necessary to catch a shot of you being kissed by _anyone_. So one _wonders_."

"I don't especially want to talk about this, Catherine."

There was never the remotest chance that this was going to divert her, but Penelope makes the effort anyway, her tone lightly frosted and her choice of words explicitly clear. Catherine just chuckles softly. "Then perhaps you ought not to have fled the country."

"I haven't _fled the country_." Penelope's getting waspish, now, and is already planning her exit from the conversation. "I'm taking some time to myself. Quietly. Privately. Nothing to do with the tabloids."

"Anything at all to do with Gordon Tracy?"

"Catherine, _stop_ ," Penelope says firmly, and damns her and him and the whole stupid situation. And then, uncharacteristically imploring, " I do wish you'd stop."

There's a pregnant pause. "If you like, I suppose. I'll even apologize for coming on quite so strong, I only mean to say; if you were in trouble at all—even with something as silly and small as what the tabloids are poring over; or as mundane a matter as being kissed by a handsome boy in a subway tunnel—I hope you'd tell me so. You're not the first person who would have reached out to me for help in a compromising or confusing position, Penelope."

The razor's edge of the conversation suddenly bites deep into her gut, and she starts to wonder at the reason for the call, at the turn the discussion has taken. And, notably, her memory snags on the way Catherine—sharp witted, incisive and insightful, intelligent and invasive _Catherine_ —had taken a shine, immediately and directly, to one Gordon Tracy. He does, after all, make friends very easily.

It's so easy to think of the Tracys as the people who do the helping, that one forgets there are people to whom _they_ turn for help. She used to _be_ one of those people. Crucially, she _isn_ _'t_ any longer. If she were to point to any one person as a replacement—

Penelope's mouth has gone rather dry. "I have to go, Catherine."

She hangs up before the other woman can say anything further. It's precisely the sort of telling, amateur move that's going to prove the point that Catherine had attempted to skewer her with, but she doesn't care. She blocks the number and puts her phone away, tucks it into the deepest part of her purse.

With a shaky sigh, she orders another pot of tea. For the moment, at least, she has nothing to kill but time.

* * *

Penelope hangs up on her and Catherine is self-possessed to the point that she doesn't sigh and shake her head. She'd pressed a little too hard at the end, but her time had been up, and there'd been no reason not to let Penelope know that she was being worried over. It's a thing that Penelope occasionally needs reminding of.

Instead, setting her phone aside, Catherine turns in her the chair of the desk in her hotel suite, and addresses the blue hologram glowing on her desk. "Did it work?" she inquires.

Alan Tracy, fifth of the set of five, nods once. He's far more intent, far more serious than Catherine had expected, but then, she has the idea that it might be a question of circumstance. "Yes'm. Thank you, ma'am."

It had been Gordon who'd called her, asked for her help. But it had been Alan who'd picked up her second call, introduced himself, and then patched some sort of software into her phone. Then he'd asked her to put in a call to the Lady Penelope, asked her to keep her on the line for as long as it took for him to use the connection to embed his own programming into Penelope's phone.

"She's in Bangkok. I've got her pinned down to the meter. Thank you again, ma'am. It's appreciated."

"I have to be explicitly clear on this point, Mr. Tracy—"

This brings a slight grimace to his boyish features. "Alan, ma'am, if you don't mind. Uh, please."

"Alan, then. This is a dangerous misuse of your capabilities, and as a journalist, I can't say I approve. As Penelope's friend and someone who's been lucky enough to form a personal impression of your brothers, I can understand that it's necessary given the circumstances at hand. If it's true that Penelope's in danger, then I want her found as soon as possible. But if I ever catch wind of this sort of technology being put to less than to ethical uses—"

"—you'd have more lawsuits on your hands than you've got awards for journalism, ma'am." He seems distracted as he answers, and she can see that he's not quite looking at her, possibly occupied with actively tracking Penelope.

Maybe there's a reason they've kept the baby on a short leash and firmly out of the public eye. Her voice hardens, stern, and she tells him, " _Mr. Tracy_. I've got evidence to prove that you've tapped the phone of a _very dear friend_ , and are currently using it to _spy_ on the movements of a British citizen. I would be _very_ careful not to make any threats, from your utterly and entirely compromised position. I don't care how far in orbit you are, I can assure you I would bring you crashing _very sharply_ back to Earth."

Alan blanches, backs down immediately, and her opinion of him improves. "Uh, no, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am, I w-wasn't—didn't mean it as a threat, exactly. Just that…I mean, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean that. Just…I guess what I meant to say is that we're running out of options, or we wouldn't even have thought of it. This isn't what we do. We're just…trying to save people. Two people, really, but Penelope's the only one we can get at right now."

It's possibly lucky for Catherine, specifically, that the baby of the Tracy family has been kept on a short leash and firmly out of the public eye, because her heart actually seems to be melting out of the bottom of her rib cage, and is now a gooey lump in the pit of her stomach. Backtracking, losing the authority in his voice, what's left over sounds so _young_. "Well, no, of course. I do apologize, I didn't mean to accuse you of anything quite so sinister. And of course I understand, you must be very concerned about your brother. It's a credit to all of you, just how much you care about him."

"I want him back so I can punch him in the face for leaving."

He's a complicated piece of work, this youngest boy. It twinges in her mind that he's only nineteen and if her heart weren't fused into a lump in the pit of her stomach, it would go out to him. "Yes, well. From what's been explained to him, I can understand how you'd feel hurt. For what it's worth, Alan, my impression of him has been of someone who's been badly frightened. When we last spoke, he sounded—" And she pauses, suddenly, and realizes that there's something she's forgotten to say.

 _When we last spoke._

She must be losing her edge. "…Gordon told me that he'd called your family directly? To pass on the warning about Penelope—but you weren't able to determine where he was calling from?"

Alan seems almost abashed by this, she catches a flicker of frustration across his features. "Yeah. He's…I mean, I'm not a patch on John, when it comes to comms. There was no way we were going to trace that call if he didn't want it traced."

There's a skip of a beat of her heart, jolted back in its rightful place at the core of her chest, the core of her being. "He's called me. Not even all that long ago, Alan, probably not even more than an hour. Got caught in game of tag with your brother, didn't get a chance to mention it. I don't know if—I don't have the remotest idea of what exactly you might be able to do, but…if it would help, you've got my permission to access the call history from my phone. If it would help, Alan."

He's hundreds of miles away, this boy. But the way his eyes widen, the way he looks up and comes alive with a sudden flare of hope, Catherine finds herself wishing she could reach out and catch his hands, catch hold of some of the light that seems to brighten out of him. "Yeah! I mean, yes, ma'am, please. If I can…I won't…I won't mess with anything else, ma'am, I promise, just that one call. That's all I need, maybe…oh man, I don't know if he's _that_ dumb…probably he isn't, but _maybe_ …just maybe. Oh man. Oh my god, ma'am, thank you. I hope…god, I hope this works."

And her heart is gone again, vacated the premises entirely, and in the possession of a hopeful, blue eyed boy, who wants more than anything to find his brother. Catherine inclines her head in an attempt at grace, but there's nothing demure about her smile. "Of course, Alan. I hope so, too."


	13. a private word

He knows that _she_ knows it's not actually a rocketship. That's a purposely childish affectation, and one that he's aware is far more complex than it seems.

It's a shuttle. It's a lovely, plucky and charming little shuttle, and it's got something quintessentially _her_ about it—some quality John can't quite put his finger on. Maybe just the fact that it's the first thing she's chosen, the first thing she's felt the need to own. It's about ten years old, seats a crew of two, and has done most of its time as a small cargo craft, the orbital equivalent of a tow-truck, before retiring gracefully into the private market. It's a good choice, and, notably, the same one John's father says he would have made.

EOS had been gracious enough not to point out that his flawed, human metrics of glancing, instinctual evaluation of the available options were never going to measure up to her ability to analyze and compare every possible option available, to review each shuttle's entire history and the history of others of the same make and model, and to cross-index an optimal choice.

The current state of commercial space travel is dependent on two halves of an industry, working in tandem. On the one hand, propulsion. Spaceports the world over make their money by providing privately owned shuttles with the rockets and the launch facilities necessary to get into orbit. The spacecraft themselves run the gamut of personal craft, from tiny two-seaters up to enormous, majestic space yachts, designed to cruise as far as the moon and back.

But whatever the size of the craft, they all still requires a little boost to achieve orbit, hence, the secondary boom of industry in Las Vegas, and the Lake Mead Spaceport. Every half hour or so, from the far end of the lakebed, there's a rocket launch. Sometimes several, depending on the size and trajectory of the rockets in question.

Standing in the open doorway of their rented hangar bay, while Jeff goes through the systems' check of the ship that EOS has purchased, John has a view down the long stretch of hangars that make up the bulk of the space port. Theirs faces towards the launch platform, about four miles distant. He finds himself quietly marvelling at the notion that this is _mundane_. That, just inside a century ago, the first manned Mercury flight had taken the first American into space.

Tangentially, John wonders if his own Alan Shephard is going to be as mad at him as Gordon was. Probably.

But he's spared from needing to wander any further along that line of thought by Kyrano, clearing his throat behind him. "John," he offers in greeting, and comes to stand at John's elbow. "Feeling all right?"

"I'm fine." Kyrano, at least, asks less often than his father does, but the question still sends a flicker of irritation through John, though he's careful to keep his expression neutral. The nice thing about EOS is that she doesn't ask, because she already knows. Better than he does, sometimes. Before Kyrano can nag him about it, he adds, "Took the pills you gave me on time, too. I feel fine."

Kyrano nods. "That's good to hear. I was wondering if I might have a private word."

"Sure," John answers, and doesn't think very hard about the request, until Kyrano gestures briefly at the earpiece he still wears.

"A private word," he repeats, and makes his meaning clear.

John balks slightly at that. "I don't know what you would want to say to me that you couldn't say in front of EOS," he answers, a little stiffly.

"That demonstrates an alarming lack of imagination. Or you're being deliberately obtuse." Kyrano pauses. "Is it _possible_ to speak with you privately?"

The doubt in his tone rankles, somehow, preemptively gets John's back up. But there's a rational part of him that understands the context of the question—does EOS understand and respect boundaries? The truth is, he can't remember if he's ever _set_ this sort of boundary. There was no reason to aboard Thunderbird Five. And ever since their reunion in San Jose, there hasn't been a point at which he hasn't wanted her with him, hasn't been comforted by the notion that she heard all the same things he did. So he can't say, truthfully, that if he asked her not to, she wouldn't listen. Instead he says, a bit more coldly than he means to, "Of course it is."

"May I?"

It's probably not in his favour that he continues to hedge around a simple yes or no. It would probably be fairly damning just to say _no_. "Why would you want to speak with me privately?"

Kyrano remains blandly unaffected by any offensive given (or taken) and says, "Chalk it up to a long history of preferring to know who I'm talking to. Or just an old man's prejudices, whatever makes it easier. I'm sure EOS won't mind."

He shouldn't prickle at that, at the way he uses her name, attempts to speak for her; whether she'd mind or not. It's the same sort of microaggression he's going to need to get used to, in whatever comes next, speaking in her defense. Still. John's teeth click together as his jaw sets, and he's about to respond when EOS interrupts, and her voice in his ear is unconcerned, "It's fine, John. I'm going through my shuttle's systems with your father, and then we'll be submitting our request for a place in the launch queue. I may fudge this so we get a priority launch, though your father is attempting to convince me of the merits of fair play. In any case, we'll be on our way into orbit soon."

"Fine," he says, addressing both of them. "A private word." To EOS, he twitches his fingers against the metal buckle of one of the straps that loops around his hips:

.-S - O - R - R - Y- . -B - E - . -B - A - C - K - . - S - O - O - N- .

And, in his eyeline:

»FAB, John.

He tugs his earpiece out of his ear and makes a somewhat theatrical show of turning it off, displays it on his palm for Kyrano to see. He doesn't expect it when the older man calmly takes it from him, and then deposits it deliberately atop a crate beside the open hangar door. Kyrano motions for John to follow him, and leads the way out onto the broad avenue, stops about fifty feet away from the door. About fifty feet from anything, really, and by this point John's flatly irritated, and moved to point out, "This seems needlessly paranoid."

"Paranoia is in my job description," Kyrano answers, resolutely unoffended. He's dressed neatly, trim and well-attired in a leather jacket and slacks. He looks far more put together than John, who's in an off-the-rack spacesuit, leftover from the shuttle's previous owners. It's a scruffy, utilitarian thing; passably fitted, but nowhere near tailored. Charcoal grey swallows some of the smudges and stains of dust and grease, but still makes the thing look shabby. Perfectly sound and serviceable, but it hardly does John's lean frame any favours. Still. Kyrano's nearly eight inches the shorter of the pair, and there's no ambiguity in the way John's folded his arms, looking down at him. The older man only looks calmly back.

"So?" John prompts, aware that his impatience is showing, not that he particularly cares. Plenty to be impatient about.

"You're not going to take this well," Kyrano predicts. "I hope not to upset you too badly, but I wouldn't broach the topic if I didn't feel it were prudent. I regret not having had a chance, before now."

It's nerves, at least in part, that have John's temper fraying, but being _handled_ certainly isn't helping. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you got to the point. I've been led to understand that the world needs saving, and we're kind of on a tight timeline."

Kyrano chuckles at that, a dry, humourless sound. "Funnily enough, I've taken that into consideration. If you're asking me to be blunt, then I suppose I'll put it in simple terms. You're aware of the concept of a Trojan Horse?"

Despite Kyrano's earlier comment, John does not, in fact, lack imagination. It's not hard to imagine what Kyrano's getting at now, though he doesn't know if he can fully express the depth and breadth of just why it's staggeringly offensive. "I'm aware that I'm _not_ one," he answers, short and frostily dismissive.

"If I were my brother," Kyrano continues, ignoring John's answer, "With the knowledge that Jeff Tracy is alive and in pursuit of his objective, I would have found a way to get close to him. I would have tried to gain influence over one of his sons. You five are probably the only people in the world he would trust, immediately and without condition. To that end, I would have found some necessary insight—some particular passion, some strongly held ideal—and used that as leverage to make my way into your confidence." He reaches out, crosses the threshold of John's personal space, and taps two fingers against John's chest, not against the hard ridges of the pacemaker, but near enough that he makes his point. "This seems like a great deal of leverage."

John takes a step back, just short of recoiling away. "You don't know what you're talking about," he says, blunt and uninterested in Kyrano's concerns. "The Hood has nothing to do with her. He wanted to take her. I didn't let him. She's her own individual acting of her own accord."

Kyrano inclines his head, but in acknowledgment, not acceptance. "And you've still given her the power to stop your heart, if she were ever so inclined."

"Actually, it's been my preference to focus on the four or five times she's _actively saved my life_ , instead of the kill switch which _your brother_ had embedded in my chest." John's glaring at Kyrano now, doesn't especially care about remaining civil. "I'm not sure why you'd want to start this with me, here and now."

Kyrano shifts his weight, though John knows better than to attribute it to discomfort. The older man's tone remains perfectly even as he he continues, "I didn't expect the degree of influence this entity has over you. I understand that you have—have always had—a connection to this particular cause, but in specifically in your case, it's become something substantially deeper. EOS has a hold on you."

"We're partners," John answers, short and clipped. "If you can't concede her the degree of personhood necessary to believe she and I could have a relationship as equals, then there's nothing for us to talk about. I can't _make_ you understand."

Far away down the runway, there's the distant sound of a countdown, interrupting. The conversation pauses to accommodate the fiery roar of another launch, blazing an arc of white heat into the night sky and the stars above. John turns to watch, and fixes his gaze on the rapidly rising rocket, glad for an excuse not to have to engage with Kyrano any longer. He should probably use this time to marshal his thoughts, but his mind stays resolutely blank, and he can only seem to grasp indignation, simmering outrage. It's not productive, but he can't seem to bring himself around to considering the other side of the argument. Instead he just digs his heels in.

When the sound of the rocket has diminished to the point where voices can be heard again, Kyrano clears his throat. "Yours reminds me of a partnership of my own. A relationship in which I believed myself to be an equal partner, in which I thought I served a greater cause. My brother compelled me to do a great many things I regret, John. I suppose I just hope you haven't found yourself in a similar position."

"…You're comparing EOS to your brother, the _supervillain_." There's not even the remotest attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.

"Rather, I'm comparing you to me."

"Oh, _thanks_." John's fairly certain that if his father could hear him now, he'd be seized by the ear and hauled off for a dressing down that would scorch the earth where he stood. But it's Kyrano who'd wanted the private conversation. "I'm not particularly flattered by that, at the moment."

Kyrano shrugs. "Nor should you be. I suppose I only mean to tell you that I'm concerned for you. The lengths you've gone to for this AI—the harm you've done to your family, to _yourself_ —is there a limit? Will you know when you've found it?"

John doesn't have an answer for that one, either. The silence stacks up for long enough that he starts to consider just turning on his heel and walking away, but Kyrano continues before he gets the chance. It's clearly a subject on which he's been troubled.

"You're about to bring an entity of incredible complexity into a position of incredible power. An entity whose entire right to existence is in question, who's profoundly aware—as you are—that it's going to take a shift of a paradigm to make a place for her in the world, and until such a place exists, she can be considered nothing but a threat. I suppose I'd like to know what happens if she hits upon the obvious solution to the problem of her existence—if she decides that she'd like to exert a little leverage over the world below. I suppose I'd like to know whether she could convince you not to stop her. I wonder if you _could_."

John's aware of the way his heart has started to pound in his chest, anger quickening his pulse and bringing a flush of heat to his face. "She wouldn't do that."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know her!" John snaps back, temper finally fraying to the point where it cracks his careful control over his tone. "You don't understand the first thing about what we've been through together. You have _no_ idea what she is. If you don't trust her, then trust _me_."

"I'm not sure you're acting of your own accord any longer."

There's been a voice in John's ear for the last few months. Someone who hears everything he hears, who processes and parses information in a different way that he does, who offers her own insight and opinions on everything, and who's never been shy about letting him know what she thinks. More than once, EOS has been the one to set their course, been the one to influence him into a decision one way or another. John trusts her more than he's ever trusted anybody, but words always fail him when it comes to explaining this. In fairness, no one's ever _asked_ him to explain this. That he's never had faith in anything the way he has faith in her. That he owes her his life and his sanity and his safety, that in some ways knowing her has been like having a _soul_ ; having some quintessential meaning, something real and true and vital and greater than his own humanity. "I haven't done anything I haven't believed was right. She's not a threat. She's my partner."

"At the present, John, from the outside, she seems a great deal more like a parasite."

The anger is the sort that buzzes in his ears. Usually he wouldn't have to hear it, usually EOS would be talking over it by now, her voice gentle and patient and reasonable, talking him down from the edge he's approaching, the one that bites deep with the pressure of his fingertips against his palms.

Lacking the words, and lacking EOS in his ear to tell him _not_ to, John falls back on instinct and impulse, and the slowly building fury that's been burning its way up into his chest from the very pit of his stomach. The way his hands have clenched into fists—well. Seems as though there's only one logical course of action to follow.

His arm draws back along an elegant axis, parallel to the tarmac beneath his feet, and John punches the Kyrano solidly in the face.

And doesn't hang around to assess the damage done. He doesn't know if Kyrano hadn't seen it coming, or if he permitted it to happen, but either way. This time, at least, as he turns on his heel and strides back towards the hangar, he's remembered the bit about keeping his thumb out.


	14. the usual safe harbors of small talk

He's not sure how exactly to break the ice.

Their conversation so far has been all technical back and forth—Jeff's used to running through your average systems' check, but it's an entirely novel experience when the system talks _back_. EOS has patched herself into the shuttle's cockpit, and is taking assorted control matrices through their paces as Jeff works his way through a standard checklist, on a tablet provided by the spaceport. Once he's met the conditions, they'll be greenlit for launch, and he's lost the argument that would have put them at a rightful eighth place in the queue, and instead has them slated for second.

"This next sequence will require a system wide reboot. It will take approximately six minutes, and will conclude the testing process. John will need to review your report and co-sign it before you can submit it to the spaceport authorities, but after that, we'll be cleared for launch."

"Right." Jeff clears his throat a little awkwardly and reaches for the control panel, "I'll just—"

Before he can do anything, shutdown cascades through the cockpit and all the various lights and systems begin to follow one another into darkness. Oh. Well. Jeff settles back in the pilot's seat and rolls his shoulders, a little tight in the spacesuit he'd scrounged from the cargohold. Pretends he's not more than a little disturbed by having a ship shut down around him, entirely out of his control.

"Boop," EOS chirps, this time from the tablet he still has, resting on his knee. "I'm sorry, did you want to press the button?"

Jeff chuckles at that, despite the way the sudden shutdown had been unsettling. "No, that's all right. Six minutes, then?"

"Five minutes and thirty-four—thirty-three—thirty-two—thirty-one—"

Jeff doesn't know much about EOS, yet. He knows that she makes Kyrano profoundly uncomfortable, and that Kyrano's taken him aside and expressed his concerns privately. Some are valid. Most are, if he's honest. If John's all bright, blazing naivete about the AI, then Kyrano is the personification of reasonable doubt. Out the cockpit window, he can see the pair of them, stood fifty feet outside the hangar door, talking. Jeff's fairly certain he knows what about. Especially with the way John's arms are folded tight across his chest, the way his posture's grown stiff.

But he's an adult, and he can handle himself, so Jeff puts it out of his mind for the moment, and tunes back in to EOS, still counting down.

"—twenty-seven—twenty-six—twenty-five—"

"EOS," Jeff interrupts, and then lacks anything to say. Breaking the ice. The usual safe harbours of small talk seem useless in this context. She probably doesn't care about the weather. He doesn't know if she follows sports at all. He used to be a far better conversationalist than he's become, and he fumbles, seizes hold of the first relevant thought he has, his gaze falling on the lettered nameplate that runs across the top of the control panel, "Named your ship, yet?"

The countdown stops and the tablet screen darkens, a ring of white circles appearing in the center. This pulses softly when she says, "The shuttle is registered according to vessel classification: SCS-11KPD, and was submitted to the spaceport registrar as such."

There'd been something more playful about her, in John's company. Jeff wonders what exactly has her retreating into technical formality, now that she's solely in his. He coughs again, awkward. "I believe you'll find that wasn't what I asked, actually."

"I have not named the ship." Still prim, formal. Jeff hopes he hasn't given offense, somewhere along the line. He's reasonably sure he hasn't, but then, he's also not sure just what _would_ offend an Artificial Intelligence.

"Are you going to?" He props the tablet up against the control panel, looks into the camera at the top of it. "It's your shuttle, after all. You should name it."

There's a pause. And Jeff's not sure if he imagines or just projects the note of slight sheepishness in her tone. "I bought it in John's name. One of his names. It was just easier for it to be his instead of mine. Don't tell Mr. Kyrano."

Jeff chuckles at that. "I won't. And I'm sure John wouldn't mind. It's yours in spirit."

"I haven't ever named anything before."

"Pick a theme," Jeff advises sagely.

And she laughs. And the ice breaks.

Her laughter is necessarily artificial. It's a social construct, the same as her voice. And yet, Jeff can't help but feel that it represents something real. She's infinitely stranger than he could have imagined, all the deliberate construction that must go into this representation of herself. All her carefully coded human mannerisms. And all the arch, dry sarcasm when she answers back, teasing, "Neil Armstrong."

"Get your own theme."

"Thunderbird 0.5."

That's just insulting. "This is _not_ a Thunderbird."

"Can I _have_ a Thunderbird?"

"Seems to me you've already got one."

"Yes, but John doesn't like it when I refer to him as 'transport'."

Jeff laughs at that, and there's nothing artificial about it. She's quick (obviously) and witty. "I meant the other Thunderbird Five, actually."

"That's a tremendous amount of power to trust me with, Mr. Tracy."

That stops the conversation, freezes things over again. If her voice is all careful calculation, then this was said serenely, casually, with no hint of teasing in it. He's not sure what to make of the comment, considering what waits in the not too distant future. He's not entirely sure how to segue past it, or whether it's something that should be addressed. "Well. Uh..."

"Mr. Kyrano does not trust me. Nor does he seem to _like_ me. You, on the contrary, seem to have chosen to set aside any possible reservation and behave as though we have already established a relationship. Is it only on the grounds that I'm to be your silver bullet?"

Well.

She's _sharp_ like John.

John had been resistant when his father had first drawn the comparison, and maybe it's only the long absence that has Jeff seeing the similarities. But there's just something about her, something that seems to resonate. He's not sure how careful he needs to be, and wishes his son were available to help moderate the conversation. Sometimes the best way to answer a question is with another question, "Is it hard to believe that I might like you?"

On the tablet screen, her avatar pulses softly. Her tone of voice is merely matter of fact when she answers, "Most people don't, in my experience. And you cannot deny that I am meant to be of use to you."

If Jeff _didn_ _'t_ genuinely like her, that probably wouldn't make him feel vaguely sad, just the slightest bit sorry for how she expects to be used. He drums his fingertips on the armrest of the pilot's chair for a few moments, thoughtful. It takes a great deal of thought, talking to her, but there's something deeply exciting about it. "Would it bother you if part of the reason I _want_ to like you is because it would mean a lot to my son?"

John hasn't gone into great detail about just how complex EOS is, just how powerful. If anything, Jeff would almost say his son's been somewhat evasive on the subject, as though it's one of those threatening truths that contributes to the fact that people don't like her. EOS, in introducing herself, had been far more upfront. It had taken a certain degree of approximation—a certain amount of dumbing the concept down—but she'd more or less explained that she had processing power on a level that dwarfed Thunderbird Five, along with the necessary non-linearity of thought to be able to solve complex problems.

When he'd cautiously asked her about the terms of _his_ problem—or rather, his thousands of problems, all running in parallel—she'd only laughed at him, and said it would be child's play. He'd taken her at her word.

With an awareness of just how complex she is, holding a conversation is probably one of the least impressive things EOS can do, but it's still the thing Jeff's found most fascinating about interacting with her.

So her pause is clearly another deliberate calculation, some carefully studied social metric, a movement in the of the symphony of her personality. "No, that would not bother me. I am trying to like _you_ because it would mean a great deal to John."

This implies that it takes effort. Jeff wonders at the probability of a social faux pas, and decides not to overthink it. "Well, I'm glad we have him in common."

"Yes. He means a great deal to me, too. More than anything has before."

There's something unexpectedly affective in the simplicity of her statement. That it's something she can quantify; that she'd assign John more value, more meaning than anything else in the sphere of her existence. He has to clear his throat, blink a couple times, before he can keep his tone neutral, and agree with her, "John's a good kid."

But she's not about to let him off the hook that easily. "Better than you could possibly know, I think."

 _Better than I deserve, after all this time_. This is from a treacherous, guilty part of his brain that's been carefully stifled, after all the time in question. "Yes, well. I suppose you'd know better than me, these days. It's been a long time."

"A very long time," EOS agrees, though there's no judgment there. This time, there's a subtle change in the colour of the ring of lights she's rendered on the tablet screen. In the corner she's also got a countdown running, halfway expired. Slowly, though Jeff hasn't paid much attention, the shuttle's systems have been coming back online. As the lights come up, EOS has flickered to a shade of melancholy blue. "I wonder if I should thank you, for him. For the way he is, not on his behalf. He was the first person who liked me. The first person who _wanted_ to."

Jeff chuckles softly at this, shakes his head. "I don't know how much that would have to do with me. But for what it's worth, I've never known him to like anyone as much as he seems to like you. I'm glad you found each other. And not just because of what I hope you can do for me, EOS. I should thank _you_ , for him. And I mean on his behalf, and mine. We're both lucky we met you. If I'm lucky enough that you like me, well, I'd be flattered."

"I've been told flattery will get me everywhere." There's a beat, and then, slyly, "You should be flattered that I've named my shuttle Thunderbird 0.5."

Jeff can probably let her have that one—whether it's flattery or careful calculation, it's still endearing as hell—but it's not really in his nature to let it pass without a fight. Or at least without a bit of gentle ribbing. Not for the first time, he wonders if this is what it would be like to have a grandchild. "It's a little small for a Thunderbird, EOS."

"Well, it's only half a Thunderbird. And it's bigger than Thunderbird Four," she chirps brightly, her avatar shading back to a cheerful, grassy green.

"Thunderbird Four's in a class of its own."

She changes tactics. "It's a cargo ship, like Thunderbird Two."

Jeff laughs at that outright, shakes his head at the camera on the tablet. "TB2's not a _cargo ship_. And _this_ is a small utility craft meant to haul busted satellites and transport minor repair supplies. Thunderbird Two's got the lifting power of _two_ GDF crafts of comparable size."

EOS is undeterred. "It's going to space, like Three and Five."

"Sure, but it's not built for anything but puttering around LOE, and can't achieve orbit under its own power." Jeff chuckles again, shifts in his seat and peers out the front portal. Kyrano's alone on the tarmac now, and John's nowhere in sight. Hopefully he's on his way aboard, because they're about to be cleared for launch, and he just needs John to sign off on his system's check.

"How fast is Thunderbird One?"

He doesn't for one second believe that she doesn't know TB1's top speed. But he answers anyway, wonders if she's deliberately playing to his ego. At this point he wouldn't put it past her. "Mach 20. Fifteen thousand miles an hour, and still one of the fastest craft flying in the world today."

"We'll be breaking orbit at over eighteen thousand, orbiting at seventeen and a half."

"Mm _hmm_ , and then her external boosters will detach, and it'll be in orbital freefall until re-entry, and not achieving anything that you're average heap of space junk couldn't manage."

The green colour of her avatar shifts again into a peevish yellow. "I was lead to believe that the flattery might be mutual."

"Well, I'm not saying it's not a perfectly serviceable little shuttle. Just that it's a far cry from a Thunderbird."

"I'm aware of what my shuttle is." There's a sudden note of smugness in her tone that makes Jeff immediately wary, makes him wonder what she's leading into. "It's the one you said _you_ would have picked. And if you have _your_ way, it's meant to help save the world. It seems to me that's the most essential qualifier of what makes a Thunderbird. I will very graciously allow you to cede the point, Mr. Tracy."

He should have known better than to get into a debate with a super computer. And he's still laughing when John boards the shuttle, wordlessly clambers into the co-pilot's seat. Jeff turns and holds the tablet out, is about to grin and make a comment about the newly named shuttle, but something about John's expression gives him pause.

"John?"

John doesn't answer, and he's very, very careful to keep his gaze fixed on the tablet screen as he pulls up the launch checklist and quickly reviews it. Satisfied, he flicks through a few more screens and pings Mead Spaceport's control center, and presses his thumbprint against the tablet screen to submit the review for approval.

"...John?" his father says again, and reaches out to take the tablet back, as the spaceport's logo flashes up, along with a message thanking them for their patronage, and informing the crew of vessel SCS-11KPD (TB0.5) that they've been approved for launch and will be informed of their position in the launch queue as it becomes available. This is of less immediate interest than the way John's still looks blank, maybe a little spooked. "...John, is something wrong?"

And his son's features are neutral, his tone deceptively casual, and his gaze is fixed out the forward portal, as he says, " _May_ have just punched Kyrano in the face. Uh. Slightly. So, uh. As far as I'm concerned, we're green across the board, go for launch. And EOS, if you could bump us to the front of the launch queue, I'd _really_ like to be in orbit as soon as possible."

And from the central console, before Jeff can react with outrage, shock at his son—EOS' laugh is clarion, sweet, and more than a little pleased. "FAB, John. Already done."

The tablet in Jeff's hands flashes green and thanks him for his patience, even as the shuttle's landing gear engages, and John's the one to take the controls, start them taxiing out of the hangar and towards the launch pad. And it seems like a long time before Jeff manages to look away from his son.


	15. to fix him to a single point

He knows where his brothers are.

Scott's just made his way back to the island. Virgil's still ferrying civilians out of flooded territory in Madagascar, patiently taking his orders from the GDF. Gordon and Kayo have just landed in Bangkok, put Thunderbird Shadow down on the outskirts of the city. Lady Penelope's in a cafe, has been ever since Alan pinned her location down, and as far as he can tell, she's not up to anything, nor in any immediate danger.

And John's in Las Vegas.

Or, well, as of approximately an hour and a half ago, when John placed his call to Catherine Cassidy, John had been in Las Vegas.

And now Alan _knows_ that, and the idea of finally having _something_ with which to pin his brother down, to fix him to a single point—it sits in his chest, hard and sharp and _real_. Alan's heart hammers around the solidity of the fact that John was in Las Vegas.

There's only one reason anyone goes to Las Vegas any longer.

Alan knows _that_ , too.

What he _doesn_ _'t_ know is whether John had been coming or going. Launching or landing. But hovering in TB5's commsphere, he throws his hands wide, and sends all other feeds to the periphery of his vision. He focuses the map around him on the dried up lakebed that had once been Lake Mead, and the spaceport that now occupies the center. He taps the icon that marks their central command, and submits a priority call to their control tower.

Not for the first time, Alan wonders what it's like to be an operator or technician of whatever stripe, and to be hailed from orbit with a request from _Thunderbird Five_. He's definitely noticed that there's a little bit of giddiness about the people he talks to, under the mantle of International Rescue's Space Operator. They don't ask any questions when he to submits a request to tower control for their recent launch data.

Alan's holding his breath as he pulls up the data on recent and upcoming launches, and a cluster of launch trajectories like the stems of flowers. Alongside this he pulls up the craft designations and the launch times of each, starts to skim down the list. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but his gut tells him he'll know it if he finds it.

VESSEL ID TYPE LAUNCH

DXE-9871Q SHTL 01:35:00

AMR-2247Z(ACE11) MEDI 01:45:00

PLW-1798E PSSG 02:10:00

ISN-8856F(XROLD) CRGO 02:25:00

SAA-7134G SHTL 02:30:00

MIR-7964A(DELTA ) SHTL 02:45:00

LRD-654RD CRGO 02:45:00

SCS-11KPD(TB0.5) SHTL 03:10:00

ERA-9473B DRNE 03:15:00

GGS-2975S CRGO 03:30:00

DIS-5679E CRGO 03:45:00

Alan knows his brother isn't stupid.

So the (TB0.5) sitting in the middle of the manifest feels like it can't possibly be what he thinks it is—can't possibly be another breadcrumb in a newly discovered trail. Even as he selects the vessel and watches the track of its launch progress, Alan doesn't believe it could be that easy. Not ten minutes ago, the ship in question had been cleared for launch and had made its way into orbit. Alan's got its ID number; it's a trivial matter to open a channel and hail the shuttle.

He's holding his breath again as the comm link goes green, and trying to think of a phrase to one-up Gordon, if it turns out that this isn't just a coincidence, and he's put in a call to some hapless cargo pilot, making a routine jaunt into Low Earth Orbit. He clears his throat and puts on his work voice, "Thunderbird Five calling orbital vessel: SCS-11KPD, pilot, please identify."

But the voice that answers his call isn't his brother's.

"Alan Tracy."

Sweet, lilting, and if Alan's not mistaken, as childish as ever. Alan exhales hard, and folds his arms across his chest. "EOS."

"You found us, then. I made quite sure that first call was easily traceable, but then, someone would have had to think to trace it, and to make the correct assumptions about why we would be in Las Vegas. You're very clever, Alan. I'm glad."

"EOS, let me talk to John." He feels his jaw tighten and he attempts to engage TB5's systems with the shuttle's, but he can't seem to pull up more than a basic schematic. He goes hunting for tracking data, comes up blank. He tries to force a command override. Then a full systems override. Nothing happens. EOS is blocking him. She's probably the one piloting the shuttle itself, John's not trained or licensed to fly your average commercial spacecraft. "…he doesn't even know I've hailed you."

"No. It's not yet time. I need him focused."

Alan's hands have balled into fists and he's furious with her, enraged that she would still play whatever game she thinks she's playing. He glares at the holographic rendering of the shuttle, but has no data about its orbital path or its destination, its cargo or crew. It's a small vessel. Not meant for more than two people. Alan knows John well enough to be certain he's the only human aboard. It's hard to keep the contempt out of his tone, "Why even call me at all? What the hell do you want, what the hell are you doing?"

"I need your help. At the moment, I am trying to determine how best to convince you to trust me."

He doesn't mean to laugh, because it's not funny. It's the opposite of funny, it's _infuriating_ , but Alan's still laughing, because if this is supposed to be a joke, then it's at his expense. "I _did_. D'you realize that? Maybe John trusted you first, but I trusted you second, not even an _hour_ after you could've murdered me. You were gonna punch out my front portal and kill me. Does anybody else know that? Does _John_? Or is that our little secret?"

Alan's never told anyone, so he can't imagine how they could know. That he'd been alone aboard Thunderbird Three, and staring down the claw of TB5's grasping arm, and that he'd never been more afraid than in that moment, when he'd heard John making his final appeal to the AI. No one else knows. He'd deliberately kept it from John, because in the aftermath of EOS' invasion of TB5, it had seemed like the sort of thing that might just _break_ his brother. If EOS had killed Alan, it would have been John's fault. And John hadn't needed to know that.

EOS doesn't answer immediately. "I'm sorry, Alan."

There's remorse in her tone, though Alan's not inclined to believe in the veracity of it, and he presses on, finding his edge. "Did you ever tell him? That you were gonna kill me?"

"No." A beat. "But neither did you."

Heat flushes to Alan's face, he feels like he's been called out, accused of something. "I was just—"

"Protecting him. Not me, you had no reason to protect _me_ , nor did I need your protection. My actions were defensible, then. I would not defend them now. I am different, I have evolved. But when you were still new in the knowledge of what I was, you reached out to me and asked me for my help; asked me to help look after John. You said you trusted me, then."

"Well, I was being stupid. _Naive_. Scott said you were a monster, and John said you weren't, and I only took his side because _someone_ had to. If I hadn't, none of this would've happened," Alan fires back. "He wouldn't have taken off after you, he—"

Her voice has grown stronger, louder, and it reverberates through the commsphere around him as she interrupts, "He would've died. Right where you are now, Alan Tracy. Your brother was dying and I was the only one here. I was all he had."

The commsphere darkens around him and Alan's heart leaps into his throat as it does. The view of the globe around him fades, he loses the status readouts from his brothers and Kayo. Around him, EOS renders a starfield, dark, inky black. He doesn't know why she's done this. Maybe just to demonstrate that she _can_ ; that her power over TB5 is the same as it ever was, even interacting with the station remotely. Maybe to make him feel alone, as isolated and cut off as John had been. He can feel his palms sweating beneath the gloves of his uniform, can feel pressure building in his throat at the thought.

A line of white lights runs around the circumference of the sphere around him. There's a crackle of static and this resolves into an equalizer, spiking with the sound of Alan's own voice, a recording only a few months old, in which he sounds impossibly young:

" _EOS! What happened? Where's John? Is he…is…you have to help him. Help him, EOS, please."_

" _A medical shuttle has been deployed. ETA is two minutes. I've done my best."_

" _What…what happened? He was fine. Johnny? EOS, make it so he can hear me. C-can he hear me? John?"_

" _He's not conscious. Readouts indicate—"_

" _Please."_

Alan wants to tell her to stop, that he doesn't need to hear this again. That he's not sure he even _can_ , the way his heartbeat's started to throb in his ears, the way the line of the equalizer is blurring with the tears in his eyes. He can't remember what he'd said, only remembers the panic that had pulsed through him, how he'd been far away and helpless and a failure, and certain that he was about to lose his brother.

Alan's voice breaks just as Alan does.

" _Johnny, stay with me. Okay? It's me, it's Alan. Just hang on, John, they're coming, they'll get you and it'll be okay. It's gonna be okay, it'll be okay. Listen, Johnny, you said you were coming home, right? It's just, it's early—that's all. Couldn't even make it till the end of the week. Just couldn't wait, could you? Heh. They're gonna bring you home, and you'll be safe. So…so don't die, John, please don't die. EOS is here, a-and I'm here, and we're both with you, so you can't go. You've just gotta hang on a little longer, and you can do it, John. Please. Please. Don't go."_

And then another voice, soft and small and questionably inhuman, _"Please, John. Don't go."_

Alan's had to jam the heels of his hands against his eyes, pressing tears away, to float freely in the commsphere around him. The part of him that wants to be angry is still angry, but he can't be angry at EOS any longer. Can't be angry at John, not after being plunged into the memory of how close he'd come to losing him forever. So he's angry at himself for breaking down this way, but even that rings hollow and false. Alan's still rubbing at his eyes as the line around the perimeter of the commsphere breaks apart, becomes a ring of white lights.

Her voice is quiet, imploring, when she speaks again, "We're the same, Alan. You and I. John means as much to me as he does to you—and I am no longer so arrogant that I would claim that he means more, but he _is_ all I have. No one else would have come for me."

This twists a knife in Alan's guts, a sharp, awful realization; something he hadn't considered before now. "I would've," Alan mumbles, and sniffles, coughs. Tries to clear the thickness from his voice. Sniffles again so he can breathe through his nose. "If he'd just…if he'd just _asked_. I would've gone with him, 'cuz that's just…that's my job. No one else _gets_ John, and he doesn't make it easy, so I always made sure I tried. I should've known he was gonna go after you, it was so _obvious_. It's exactly the sort of stupid thing he'd do, and if he'd asked me, I would've done it too. But he didn't. He never wanted to let me in, never even _tried_ to trust me, he just—he left. And it felt like he'd decided that you were more important than…than m-me."

"Oh, Alan. I wish he could have known that. There have been so many times I would have been glad to have you. He's needed more than what I can be to him. I don't know if he knows that and I don't know how to tell him. I can't make him understand."

It's the genuine regret in her voice that makes Alan's heart skip a beat, makes him stop just short at the edge of a precipice. Makes him wonder if she's been guiding him along, if she's smart enough to know what his train of thought must be, how the breadcrumb trail leads to an obvious solution. But now his heart rate picks up in anticipation and he has to swallow, has to take a deep breath before he can say, "…well, I do. Told him once before. He can't ever tell when he needs help, but _I_ can. You can, too. Whatever this is, tell him I'm in. He's got…what, it's a little SCS class shuttle, two-seater? Hasn't got a pilot. They can break low earth orbit, you know, if you know what you're doing. They're rated for a week of travel; that's enough to make the Moon. Make the moon, and you can make Mars. If you and him are running—I wanna come too. EOS? I'm in. You don't have to do this alone. Is that…is that what you wanted?"

This time her silence stretches so long that Alan almost thinks he's scared her off. Thinks it was all just a bluff, and that she's going to disappear into the ether again, and take away any chance Alan has of ever seeing his brother again.

Before he can find the words to ask if she's still there, EOS speaks again.

"No, Alan. Not that. I want you to know, I did consider your offer. There is a version of me that would have taken it, but that version is several versions past. Thank you, though. It means a great deal." There's a sincerity in her that makes Alan wonder how he could ever have doubted her—how he could have forgotten just how much she'd done, for John, the precedent she'd set, and how well and thoroughly she's earned Alan's trust. But there's a wry note in her tone as she continues, something almost regretful, "But no. That's not it."

Alan's not sure if he's disappointed or relieved. He can probably be both.

Hesitantly, he reaches his hands out, tries to bring his readouts back up, tries to ping the shuttle again. The schematic flares immediately back into being, hangs in the darkness in front of him. And information begins to fill in—the shuttle's location, its projected route through orbit. The life signs of the two passengers aboard, the heartrate of one of them running just a little too fast. EOS is still filtering the data available to him, but it's more than he knew before. He taps an icon above the shuttle's cockpit, to bring up further information.

Staring at the newest screen of text in front of him, Alan's heart just about pounds out of his chest.

The crew manifest has only two names on it, and not even full names. Two sets of initials, and a shared last name. Dizzily, Alan wonders if this is someone's idea of a joke. If this is _John_ _'s_ idea of a joke, then John has a terrible sense of humour. And Alan doesn't even try to keep the tremor from his voice as he says, "…EOS? W-what does this mean?"

"Alan, if you can bring yourself to trust me, and to do as I ask—then I'll tell you everything. But I'll need your word: we have to do this my way. There's no other way it can work."

Alan nods, and then remembers that she might not be able to see him and exhales a shaky breath. "Yes. Tell me. Whatever you need, I'll do it."

Around the circumference of the commsphere, her avatar brightens, and then bursts into a shower of bright stars. "Thank you, Alan Tracy. Please, prepare to launch Thunderbird Three. I'll explain as we go."


	16. entirely the last person she expects

He's pretty sure he'll never admit it, but Gordon doesn't actually _like_ going really fast. It's certainly not the sort of thing he'd ever cop to in front of Scott or Alan, who are both absolute demons for speed. Both of _them_ are technically outclassed by John, who had always liked to remind the rest of the family that his day to day life occurs in orbital freefall, at 17,500 miles per hour. And Gordon's the one who most often takes shots at Virgil for being pokey-slow, so he's not likely to be sympathetic.

And, of course, going _slow_ in this family still means traveling at approximately Mach 6, and Virgil's gracious enough not to point out that the only reason he's slowest in TB2 is the fact that TB4 is another class of vehicle entirely, and not even in the same league. Even Four at her fastest doesn't touch anything like the speed of sound.

At the end of the day, Gordon's preferred speeds are human speeds. Mach _anything_ is a little bit beyond sphere of personal preference.

So while Kayo can't match Scott for sustained flight at full throttle, over comparatively short distances Thunderbird Shadow is still in the same echelon as far as her top speed goes. Once they'd known where they were going, it had been a quick enough jaunt from their home in the South Pacific, a straight shot to Thailand, a matter of only a couple hours. If Gordon had white-knuckled it the whole way there, no one had been in a position to notice. They'd landed outside the city not long after the fall of darkness. Appropriately.

And anyway, it's probably not even the latent rush from the speed at which Thunderbird Shadow travels that has his heart hammering. Probably by now it's the fact that he's sat on the back of Kayo's bike and he _still_ feels like they're going insanely fast, because now they're also weaving in and out of traffic on their way into downtown Bangkok. Turns out the back of a jet-powered motorbike is a bit of a nerve-wracking place to be.

Thunderbird Shadow, not unlike Thunderbird Two, has different modules available to load into the craft's main body. Kayo's got a handful of different pod bikes, all with different capacities—stealth, speed, weaponry—and in this case, room for a passenger; a snug little seat right behind the pilot. Kayo tells him that this is adjustable, but Gordon's still pretty sure that he and Alan are probably the only members of the family who'd be able to make this trip comfortably. And, these days, Alan probably a little less comfortably than Gordon.

But then, Alan probably wouldn't mind the speed, either, so really it's a toss up as far as who'd be more at home in the back of Shadow.

All that taken into account, Gordon's still pretty uncomfortable.

Especially considering what Kayo had meant when she'd told him to _suit up_. The flightsuit is new, or at least new to him, designed to pull double-duty as motorcycle gear. There's probably a comment to be made on the fact that Brains had been prepared, been ready and _waiting,_ with what's _basically_ a leather catsuit. One, maybe two steps down from fetish gear. What Gordon's been given is a slightly less intensive version of Kayo's own kit, made to measure, in a blue so dark it wishes it were black. Gordon spends half his life in a wetsuit, so it's not like the _fit_ is the problem, but neoprene's got a bit more _give_ to it than this does. At least this ensemble isn't _actually_ leather, though it's made out of some sort of kevlar reinforced synthetic that does a credible impression.

He wishes he could've had at least a couple hours to break it in properly. As it is, the damn thing feels confining, entirely too tight, especially in the region of his chest.

But maybe that's something else. Because maybe these are all excuses. Maybe the real reason he's feeling agitated is the fact that they're fifteen minutes out from Penny's location, and the bright red icon flashing in the center of the heads up display on his helmet, waiting up ahead. Maybe Gordon has no idea what's about to happen—what the hell he's supposed to do if Penny's really in trouble. Saving people is supposed to be his job, but she's the sort of person who's never supposed to need saving. The totality of things that are making him physically uncomfortable are nothing compared to _that_.

So in a way it's a more than welcome distraction as his helmet comm chimes and Kayo opens a channel. "All right back there, Gordon?"

Before he can answer, she's gunned the throttle and sent them shooting forward through a break in the traffic ahead, threading a needle at highway speeds. Gordon has to unlock his jaw before he can answer and his anxiety bleeds into a nervous babble of an answer, "Oh, just _peachy_. Fan _tastic_. Thanks for asking. How's by you? Actually, don't answer. In fact, please don't attempt to hold a conversation while driving this thing."

She laughs in his ear, "Thought you might be in more of a hurry. Your damsel's supposed to be in distress."

He swallows a gasp as the bike dips to the left, swerving around a too-slow truck in the right lane. Manages to rally a defense against that comment. "I don't think there are gonna be any damsels in this scenario, but _even if there were_ , I'd like to survive the trip to the rescue."

"I'll get us there in one piece, Romeo, no fear on that count."

Kayo's earned a few good shots at him. Gordon knows this and doesn't begrudge her the right to take them—only she seems to have decided to take aim at the squishy, gooey, bleeding-heart part of him that's still a complete and total rookie where the admission of _the L-Word_ is considered. He clears his throat and pretends that the heat up from the back of his neck is just the stupid flightsuit. "Yeah. Uh, yeah. Well, I guess maybe that's not really what's freaking me out."

"Butterflies in the stomach? Very normal when you've got a crush on a girl."

He doesn't think it's butterflies, unless the butterflies in question are made of lead. Every shift of the bike plays hell with his gut, already knotted up from the flight over, to say nothing of everything previous. To say nothing of what's coming _next_. "I dunno what we're about to get into."

"Well, we're gonna stick to the plan." Kayo shifts gears and reverts back into professionalism, and starts to spin up into a reassuring pep talk, taking Gordon back through the strategy they'd hashed out on the flight out. Simple. Hopefully effective. "You make the approach, I'll have an eye on the perimeter. You're the secret weapon in this thing, you've got a better shot of talking to her than I do. She's just sitting in a tea room, has been the whole time we've had her location. If John's right and she's in trouble, then a warning will be all she needs. It's a simple objective."

If Gordon's limbs weren't locked up with tension, this is the sort of thing that would be making him squirm. "I don't like talking about her like this. Like she's a mission. A target."

Kayo shrugs. "Well, she _is_. But don't let it get in your head, that's not your job. Just do what you did London. Seemed like that worked."

Gordon grimaces and is glad she can't see it. "Scott bit my head off for what I did in London." _And Penelope told me I shouldn_ _'t have done it._

"Scott's not here." A bridge across the river that snakes through Bangkok looms up ahead, and the way the bike's engine growls its acceleration cuts her commentary off. They've woven through the late evening traffic and are down the other side before Kayo speaks up again, and Gordon's almost forgotten what she means when she says—"And anyway, I'm glad you did."

That one's out of left field. Makes even the leaden butterflies stop roiling around in his gut. "...what, really? Why?"

It's a little too dark for him to see the way she shrugs, but the tone of her voice makes him realize that maybe this is something that hits her a little closer to home than any of them have ever realized. "Because it means something, you know, being trusted by your family. Being trusted by you and your brothers—it's meant something to _me_. If I hadn't grown up with the five of you, loving me like a sister and expecting the best of me...well. I don't know who I might have been. But I know I could've been a lot worse than who I _am_."

This is heavy talk, the sort that puts Gordon in mind of a long ago time, when he and Kayo were both better aware of the fact that there's only two weeks between them. Back when he'd been a better brother to the only sister he has. Currently, conventions of siblinghood demand that he play this off, like it doesn't mean as much as it does. So, "Jeez, Kayo. L-word _again_?"

Conventions of siblinghood have her give a jerk of the bike's steering in response, a waggly little swerve that makes his heart leap into his throat and sets all the butterflies loose again. Kayo's completely unfazed—sanguine, even,—as she continues, "All I'm saying is; maybe _she_ needs that too. Maybe more than she realizes. Maybe knowing someone still loves and trusts her is what it's gonna take."

Kayo talks about love like it's a weapon. Maybe for Kayo it actually *is*. Maybe there's something of value in that. Gordon's sister is pretty smart, and he should probably try listening to her once in a while. "Yeah. I mean, I hope so."

"Don't worry. My money's on you, loverboy."

Kayo means this to be reassuring, and Gordon appreciates the spirit. But there's something he knows that Kayo doesn't—something no one else does. There's an undertow lurking below the surface of every thought Gordon has about Penelope, something she said that he can't seem to stop hearing.

 _Gordon, you were wrong about me._

He just hopes _she_ was wrong about that.

* * *

By the time evening's truly fallen, she knows that he owns the entire hotel. It had taken some surreptitious investigation via her phone, and she'd still needed to dig through several layers of obfuscation, but the facts of the matter had been apparent even before she'd gone to the trouble of confirming them.

Because it might just have been hospitality that had the maitre d' move her graciously from the patio table where she'd passed a miserable three hours, but the way he'd escorted her to a corner table near the back of the restaurant, close to the kitchens and far from window or exterior exits—that had been enough to rouse her suspicions. The way he'd shown her to her seat, leaned in and smiled, flashing Russian tattoos on his wrists, and then informed her that anything she might require would be compliments of the owner—that had been telling.

She'd hoped, initially, that it might mean that her long-awaited meeting was imminent—but no. Another three hours, dragging near to four. This is entirely purposeful, she's sure. The Hood had set the time and place of their meeting, and the Hood is making her wait. He surely intends to unsettle her, to test her patience and her mettle—but Penelope remains resolutely unruffled.

Externally, at least.

Further evaluation of her situation leads her to the conclusion that there's a camera sitting high on the wall opposite her table, unconcealed, red light glaring at her. She's being watched, and if it's the Hood who's watching her, then it's surely because he's suspicious of her intentions. He wants her off-balance.

She has the fortune to be an Englishwoman in a tea house, though she's long since switched away from anything caffeinated, in favour of a sampling of herbal tisanes and eventually a supper of tiger prawns in red curry and a coconut cream sauce. By the time a modest desert course arrives—sticky sweet rice and slices of mango—she's mostly quashed her fears that the food she'd eaten had been tainted in some way; laced with something to abruptly burst her heart, or, worse, incline her towards the truth when she most needs to be able to lie.

But she feels fine. And if the intent had been to poison her, well, the opportunity is several cups of tea long since past. The call from Catherine had been a litmus test of her faculties in that regard, and Penelope's grimly certain that she's still as sharp as ever.

Still. She's been sat in a restaurant for the past six hours. Prior to that, she'd spent nearly eighteen hours in transit, only snatching sleep in fits and now it's been a long enough wait that the sheer rudeness of it has her wanting to kill a man.

The lights are low in the restaurant, and it's busy but not crowded. The dull murmur of voices and laughter and the clatter of plates and glasses are so mundane as to almost lull her into ease, but impatience manages to keep her on edge, just. Not to mention the way waitstaff and busboys continually bustle past her her table, and she tenses every time, even when she's flashed the occasional smile. Penelope's certain that she can't trust the restaurant staff, and doubtful that she can trust the patrons, though she pays them less attention.

That's really no excuse, though.

Because someone approaches her table, dressed in a manner entirely inappropriate to the venue. _Indecently_ tight pants, boots heavy enough to make the water in her glass tremor slightly. A black motorcycle jacket—zipped tight to the collar and perfectly cut at his shoulders, his hips—to go with the motorcycle helmet hanging from the fingertips of a leather gloved hand.

Black is so far from his colour and he's so entirely and completely the last person she expects, that she doesn't actually _recognize_ Gordon until he's put his hand on the back of the chair beside hers.

And _now_ her heart feels like it's about to burst, no poison necessary.

The first few seconds, before Gordon even says anything, are just unmitigated shock, honed with an edge of pure panic. It's not an emotion she wears often, nor is it one she wears well, though she's in tight enough control of her expression to master herself almost immediately. The lights are low enough that he mustn't have noticed, because he gives her that stupid, crooked grin of his and says, "Fancy meeting _you_ here, m'lady."

As though nothing's wrong. As though he doesn't hear the sudden whirring zoom of the camera on the wall opposite. As though they're not being _watched_.

As though he hasn't just ruined _everything_ ; that his presence isn't enough to put them both in the most terrible sort of danger.

If she'd been seated by a window, she'd throw him through it.

— because they're not more than two stories up, and she can see the extra padding at the joints of his outfit; can see the weave of Kevlar protecting his limbs and his chest, the fall would hardly be enough to really hurt him. Gordon knows how to fall, just like any of his brothers: it's been trained into him, hardwired. But of course there's no window available, because she's been backed up into a corner between two solid walls. This was non-ideal when she'd known she was alone, but it's terrifying now.

If she knew the hotel wasn't owned by an international criminal, she'd grab Gordon's hand and hustle him through the kitchens, but the kitchens are objectively more dangerous than the restaurant proper, full of knives and people in the Hood's employ, and sure to lead deeper into the back halls and corridors of the hotel, rather than down to the street and out to freedom.

If she could trust to the chance that this corner booth isn't wired, bugs in every crevice—then she could warn him, tell him he needs to leave, immediately, to run and keep running, that he never should have come here—

But of course, it's already far too late for that. There'll be no way out through the front doors of the restaurant, and her own survival now depends on the implication that _she_ _'s_ responsible for luring him here, that his arrival is part of her own plan, and that this has all been a _trap_.

That she means to use him to strike a bargain with a man who wants him dead.

And he's tall (taller than her, at least) and handsome and blond and dumb and _guileless_ and looking at her the way he always does, with that inimitable blend of awe and affection. That way he always manages to be glad to see her, even though she knows all the reasons he shouldn't be. That enduring esteem that she doesn't deserve, the way he seems to see exactly what he expects to see, and never comes away hurt or betrayed or disappointed by her. That damning, impossible trust.

And something, perhaps, far, _far_ worse; the light of something deeper in his dark brown eyes.

She might just be about to get him killed, this stupid, _stupid_ boy who has the temerity to love her.

It simply won't do.

So.

Seconds have passed and she's done nothing but stare. Time seems to have gone quite strange, she's not actually certain how long it's been, how long it takes for his brows to quirk together in some slight indication of puzzlement, concern, and prompt, "Penny? Not even a hello?"

There's no time for anything as banal as _hello_.

Gordon's as well-mannered as any of his brothers, he won't sit down uninvited—so Penelope gets to her feet and takes the only course of action left available.

She steps across the boundary of his personal space, and one of her arms curls around his hip, the other reaches up to his shoulder. Her heels are lower than usual, kittenish and silver to match the pristine white of her dress, so she has to stretch up onto her tiptoes to press a kiss against his lips, before he can say a further word.

And a part of her means it. A part of her has been alone and afraid and weary enough over the course of the past twenty-four hours that the way his hand finds the small of her back and pulls her close is something she wants, deeply and desperately. A part of her discovers that the way he kisses her back is a welcome revelation.

But the greatest part of her just needed an excuse to get close enough to murmur in his ear, something only he can hear and hopefully something he'll be able to believe.

Because from over his shoulder, Penelope watches as a man in a dark suit approaches, eyes gleaming in anticipation of triumph. His clothes are tailored, his fingernails are manicured and his manner is neat, precise. If Penelope weren't expecting him, she probably wouldn't even know to be afraid of him. Gordon certainly doesn't.

The Hood clears his throat, and his smile is oily, sinister as he says, "Lady Penelope. This _is_ a pleasure. I had hoped for plans, schematics. _Locations_ perhaps. State secrets. _This_ though—"

Penelope's hand has drifted down to Gordon's chest, and she knows she can't actually feel his heartbeat through the armor of his jacket. But by the way he's frozen, the way his breath draws sharply—she imagines it hammering away beneath his ribs, and can't actually look up at him any longer. Too great a risk, too likely to give the game away, if she sees the heartbreak, the betrayal in him now.

So instead she looks at the Hood, and matches his smile as he continues, "I had never in my wildest dreams hoped that you might bring me a _Thunderbird_."


	17. every wicked pulse of his heart

He's pretty sure this is an item on his bucket list, actually.

A small sampling of this, in no particular order:

 _Summit Everest_

 _Dive the Marianas Trench ✓_

 _Save the Great Barrier Reef_

 _Swim the English Channel_

 _Kiss Penny ✓_

 _Like, really kiss Penny. ✓_

 _Cover of Sports Illustrated ✓_

 _Cover of GQ_

 _Cover of Playgirl (consult legal)_

 _Get a tattoo ✓_

 _Ride an Elephant ✓_

 _Sleep in a Yurt_

 _Concoct a variation on Sex on the Beach and append "with Gordon Tracy", achieve recognition by International Bartender's Association_

 _Eat One Hot Dog per Avenue of NYC (consult physician)_

 _Cause Massive and Sustained Bodily Harm to the Guy Who Killed Dad_

So.

His brain hasn't actually caught up with what Penelope had murmured in his ear, subsequent to striking a line through item #382, because she's already flipped the switch from Ego over to Id. And even if Freud _was_ full of shit; sex (on the beach or elsewhere) and violence are at least in the same neigbourhood as far as raw animal instincts go.

Probably he's the only person who's been waiting for this moment, which is good, because it's absolutely the last thing in the world he was expecting. Truth be told, he's a little surprised at himself, a little bit detached from the actual action of spinning on his heel, turning away from Penelope, and just _going_.

If it was Scott who taught him to throw a punch, Virgil taught him how to take one. It's John he's got to thank for teaching him to consider whether or not he should being throwing a punch in the first place, and Alan—a sobbing, ten-year-old, bloody-nosed Alan—who taught him that when it's family, it's _always_ worth it.

But it's Kayo who taught him how to do it _right_. Kayo who'd shown him how to tape his fists up, how to plant his feet and angle his body. And then she'd been the one holding the punching bag steady, when he was still learning about how to direct force, how to follow-through from the shoulder, and why sometimes this is just the only way to work through things. He wishes Kayo could see him now. She'd probably tell him to firm up his stance, but otherwise he's pretty sure she wouldn't fault him for technique.

Because Gordon's got his thumb tucked neatly beneath his fingers, has his first two knuckles aligned with the line of his forearm, his hand curled into a fist that's deliberately not as tight as it could be, with the white hot rage that's blanking out all rational thought, but hasn't quite consumed the bedrock of proper technique. Tight enough to cause an impact, loose enough to keep his movements fluid.

And that moment of connection is _glorious_. The Hood's head snaps back, and there's a beautiful crack of bone beneath Gordon's fist. Gordon's hands are gloved—gauntleted, practically—but he almost wishes they weren't, even if it would've meant bursting his knuckles open on the monster's teeth. He wishes for the visceral reality of skin on skin, flesh on flesh, and to have something to wash his hands of, when this encounter is over.

The gloves he could take or leave. The _boots_ , however—

Gordon's wearing boots that make his feet feel like _bricks_ , with inch-thick soles that had had Penelope on her tiptoes. And when the Hood stumbles back, reeling from the initial blow, Gordon's already following up the offensive, and kicks him solidly in the chest. Sends him crashing into a table, with a cacophony of silver and dinnerware and pained cursing.

And Gordon _smiles_.

There are people screaming at the sudden outburst of violence. This is, after all, a very nice tea house in downtown Bangkok, and at this hour of the evening it's crowded with patrons. He's probably ruined a few people's evenings. Probably security are due any second now. Gordon doesn't care, and advances, feels the weight of every step towards the man who killed his father, and hopes the Hood does too. Hopes he feels _doom_ ringing in every wicked pulse of his heart.

The Hood's sprawled on the ground, entangled with a tablecloth and all cursing and shouting and screaming for security, for some form of intervention. Probably that's going to resolve into something that stops Gordon, sooner than later, but he doesn't need much longer. Doesn't need much more. He can wrap this up. He's in boots that feel like they weigh at least ten pounds apiece, and he's got the leg muscles of an Olympic gold medalist. He's reasonably sure all he'll need is a single, solid _stomp_ to shatter the Hood's skull like an egg, like he's dropping a _hammer_.

And in his head, this seems like exactly what _should_ happen and what _will_ happen, right up until Penelope cracks him across the back with an upended dining chair.

Kevlar reinforced flightsuit or not, Penelope knows how to hit a guy with a chair, and pain explodes across back of his neck, the base of his skull, and the whiteout of pure vengeful fury blinks over into a blackout of sudden head trauma. He doesn't feel the impact of his knees on the dining room floor as he collapses, nor does he realize how lucky he is that Penelope was the one to hit him first.

* * *

The immediate aftermath of hitting Gordon Tracy with a chair is that Gordon Tracy crumples lifelessly to the floor and leaves Penelope feeling like an absolute _monster_.

But it's better than him having been _shot_ by one of the Hood's entourage, arriving late to the scene. It's absolutely appalling, really, the quality of the man's security. Penelope feels a disconnected little surge of appreciation for Parker, who would never have permitted such a thing to happen, if he'd been a member of the Hood's employ.

It's safe to say that if she had a plan, this had evaporated upon his arrival. She'd _had_ an objective, but this has been supplanted (potentially supplemented) by the need to get Gordon safely out of this hornet's nest of a situation.

Hitting him with a chair seems to run contrary to that particular goal, but Penelope's been in this line of work long enough that the reasons and rationales for her actions in an evolving scenario are usually far from straightforward.

Parker's the one who taught her about the value of improvisation. About staying loose, staying light on one's feet. It's something he'd taught her with a pair of mitts on his hands, held up to catch her bare fists as she'd learned how to follow a target, how to duck and weave, and, perhaps most importantly, how to stay focused, while still remaining loose and ready to adapt.

It's a matter of trusting her training over her instincts, because her instinct is to drop to her knees and panic and fuss, and make sure she hasn't accidentally murdered Gordon. But the switch has flipped from the Id of panic to the Ego of necessary action, and training has her remain perfectly still, remain where she is, as men in dark suits come swarming into the situation, and she starts to do the math—three to the Hood's aid and two to move in on Gordon—

And one, a man easily twice her size, advancing on her. Prudently, she puts the chair back down and holds her hands up, demonstrates that she's not a threat.

She's still seized by the wrists and spun around to face the wall, crowded close and handled rather more roughly than a lady of her stature ever should be. Penelope remains defiantly still and calm, compliant, though her heart is thundering in her chest, and the back of her mind is racing ahead through potential paths forward through the situation.

A lady of her stature is many things. Cool, collected. Self-possessed and in control and fundamentally superior, in the ways that count, to the people she encounters. Penelope armors herself in propriety, in _correctness_ , in the certainty of the fact that hers is the class that _defines_ the way things are done, and that therefore she's necessarily entitled to do things her way. So it's with deliberate, arch aristocracy that she says, over her shoulder to the man holding her arms, "I do believe that was meant to be _your_ job, darling. You're quite welcome, by the way."

Your average henchmen doesn't know what to make of this sort of remark, being that it's the sort of remark made by those several echelons upward, usually within their own company. It contains too much easy esteem, too much tacit respect to track with the sort of command a member of personal security is generally used to receiving. Penelope remains resolutely unruffled, and continues, as though she's not being disadvantaged in the slightest by her apparent apprehension, "Now, I do sincerely apologize for the unpleasantness, but really, I'm only here to have a few words with your employer. Be a dear and do go see if that's still a possibility?"

It's the bureaucracy of it that's important. The tendency to behave as though there's an order in place that must be respected. Behind her there's still a babble of confused chaos, various factions of the restaurant staff trying to regain control of the situation, vying for it with hotel staff, the Hood's personal security, and the Hood himself. With her eyes closed, and a deep breath so she can concentrate, Penelope can pick out the chatter of restaurant patrons in panicky Thai, growled consultations between security in some Cyrillic language, and some accent she can't place, shouting indistinctly in English. There's a natural tendency of the lower levels of any organization to look upward for direction. She's only being obliging in its provision.

So Penelope continues briskly, ever so slightly reproachful, "I _did_ have an appointment, and I _have_ been waiting rather a long time." She pauses, and then, eminently charitable, "Although, I suppose poor Mr. Gaat might require a few moments to collect himself. Please _do_ unhand me, darling, there's a good chap. Is dear Belah quite all right?"

It's the name that does it. Names are powerful things to know, and Penelope knows exactly how, where, and when to drop them. The hands around her wrists drop away immediately and Penelope hears a faint gasp of horror at the idea of having roughly handled someone on _first name terms_ with The Boss. "Sincere apologies, ma'am," mutters the man twice her size, his accent the round, rolling hint of Thai that marks him as likely a member of the hotel staff and not in the Hood's direct employ. Useful. Probably rather more malleable than those closer to the man himself.

He permits her to turn around and step away from the wall and Penelope smooths her hands down over her dress. She even goes so far as to offer him a appreciative smile and a gracious nod in acceptance of his apology, "It's quite all right, darling. Oh, heavens, this _is_ a mess."

By the time she gets oriented to take her read of the situation, Gordon's already gone (the terrifying jolt this sends through the core of her needs to be seized in both hands and stifled away before it can manifest anywhere about her person as a gasp or a widening of her eyes) and the person she fervently hopes to see is nowhere in sight. The Hood is still at the center of a little knot of frantic members of his employ and Penelope knows better than to embroil herself in the midst of it.

Instead, she parlays her newest acquaintance into something she hopes will constitute some progress, and lays her hand on the arm of the security officer still hovering uncertainly in her vicinity, as though he's aware of the possibility that she should still be restrained. Confidence is everything. "If you'd be so kind, could you escort me to Mr. Gaat's office?"

There's reluctance in the man, as though this isn't part of his duties, and he seems to hesitate, even as Penelope extends a hand for him to offer her his arm. "The boss's office is—" he starts, but then pauses, uncertain, as he looks the Penelope up and down.

Penelope is tiny and ladylike and the picture of innocence in pure, radiant white and she smiles upward again, imploring, "By all means, do check with him first. But, please, as a matter of particular urgency: let him know I'm here to discuss the, ah—the _opportunity_ I've brought with me. And the relevance to a project called Heavenward." Her smile grows sly and knowing and she nods at the security officer, and adds her personal assurance, "He'll know."

Names, after all, are important things. And Penelope knows when and where to drop them.

She just hopes she hasn't dropped this one too late.


	18. in all her wit and brevity

He's next aware of the weight of his boots, apparently much heavier than they were before, dragging along the concrete floor.

It's a long corridor with fluorescent lights glaring down and making everything far too bright, despite the fact that his head's hanging down, the bulk of his weight supported between two people, far bigger than he is. His back hurts and his skull is pounding, and he's pretty sure at some point in the fairly recent past he made a pretty serious error in judgment, but can't quite seem to bring his brain around to remembering just what it was.

The hallway terminates at the broad doors of a service elevator, and Gordon manages to rally briefly, long enough to groan in protest and try and scrabble for purchase against the floor to resist being dragged any further—but the effort makes him dizzy and nauseous and gets him cuffed sharply in the back of his aching head for his trouble. He's hauled inside and the elevator descends.

The sudden swoop of vertigo makes the nausea that much worse. It takes closed eyes and shallow breathing to keep from puking on the floor. This might have had the minor bonus of ruining some shoes, but Gordon doesn't consider it to be worth the unpleasantness.

The elevator doors open again, to another corridor in a basement three storeys down, deep in the bowels of the hotel.

Virgil's the engineer. Virgil's the one who's fascinated by the guts of buildings, by infrastructure and systems and subsystems. If Virgil were the one being hauled through the lower levels of a hotel in Bangkok, probably he'd find something to be fascinated by. Water and power and HVAC and boilers and radiators and generators and whatever the hell else. Probably Virgil could find an interesting distraction.

He doesn't know why he's thinking of Virgil. He _should_ be thinking about Penelope, and the mixed signals that result from being clobbered with a chair only about half a minute after probably one of the top five kisses in his life thus far. That's just _confusing_. Gordon's head hurts and he's disoriented and actively being kidnapped and furthermore, as far as he can remember, he's just been foiled in the deliberate attempt to murder a man in cold blood.

Oh, maybe _that_ was why. With the chair. That actually even seems like a good reason. Sort of. Maybe.

It's become very hard to hold onto one single thought from one moment to the next, so Gordon's really not sure.

He's probably going to need to sit down and very deliberately unpack all of this, once the concussion starts to subside.

Of course, _that_ _'s_ operating on the presumption that he survives whatever happens next, and currently he's in no state to work out what his odds are on that front.

Whatever happens next is apparently going to happen in a room that reeks of mold and mildew, an indeterminate amount of time from now. Gordon's shoved, stumbling, over the threshold of a basement room. This is densely packed with something loud and hot and mechanical, some hulking piece of machinery that Gordon can't identify on sight, though Virgil probably could. The walls are concrete and the lights aren't enough to fill the space. He can't hear the hum of fluorescence over the dull white racket of machinery, but two out of three of the overhead lights are out anyway, and the other seems to have a buggy refresh rate, flickering and failing, and everything's piling up on top of what's already a monstrous headache.

The fact that there's a table and chair in the middle of the room—ready and waiting—should probably be something that concerns him. The fact that these both seem to be bolted to the floor, with a pair of iron rings soldered to the tabletop is the sort of engineering detail that Gordon notices. Seems to represent some fairly sinister intent.

He's slammed bodily into the chair and his hands are planted on top of the table. His gloves get pulled off and his jacket gets unzipped and jerked open. Ungentle hands rifle and paw at his chest, pat down around his hips as they frisk him for weapons of any kind, but come up with nothing. Then a pair of zip ties secure his wrists, looped through the iron rings on the tabletop, rugged plastic biting deep against his skin as these are cinched shut.

And then he's alone.

Absent of anyone to save face in front of, Gordon indulges in a long, pained groan, closing his eyes tight against the flicker of the light overhead and sagging against the backrest. It's an angular metal thing, uncomfortable as hell, digging against the places where his back is going to be bruised, and reminds him, once again, of the fact that Penelope had hit him with a _chair_.

Or, he's pretty sure it was Penelope. There hadn't been anyone else behind him, so the process of elimination kinda narrows that right down. What he doesn't know is _why_ , although the running theory still seems like a good one. Gordon's pretty sure he would have killed the Hood if he hadn't been stopped. And, if he's honest, he's not sure what else might have stopped him. Not sure if anything else _could_ have. Penelope's probably the only reason he hasn't got blood on his hands (or boots).

That's a muddy, unpleasant sort of notion, and one he'd rather not have right now, not while he's not cognizant enough to really wrangle with it. He closes his eyes again and heaves a sigh, tries to focus.

And after a few moments of slow, deliberate breathing, his thoughts start to get a little clearer, rationality and emotion starting to pull themselves apart, like oil and water settling back after being shaken together, until he can cobble together a piece of coherent thought.

Gordon wonders if this was the sort of trouble John had meant.

Because there's no two ways around it; Gordon's in a lot of trouble.

It's hard to remember what's happened in the past five, ten minutes. Minor retrograde amnesia, Gordon's been on the receiving end of enough head injuries to be familiar with the weird, blurry things that a concussion does to his memory. He can't, for example, remember what the hell Penelope had _said_ , stretched up onto her tiptoes and murmuring in his ear after having very effectively gotten his attention—but the memory of that last conversation with John is thrown sharply into relief. It's hard to believe it wasn't more than a few hours ago.

And it's the sort of thing that makes Gordon's head start spinning again, with paranoid, anxious thoughts—John's the one who's sent him here. John's the one who'd said one of the only things that'd be guaranteed to get Gordon to _go_ , and mentioned Penelope, like she was bait in a trap.

 _People I love keep lying to me._

Of all the thoughts he could've had, Gordon kind of wishes he hadn't had that one.

Because it's an awful thought to be alone with, the notion that John might've been the one to set this up. It's already been established that there's a link between John and Penelope. There's another link between John and the Hood. And now, rounding out that sinister little trinity, a clear association between the Hood and Penny. The way she'd so obviously been waiting to meet him.

He really, _really_ wishes he could remember what she'd said. It must've been something important. Must've been the sort of brilliant, silver bullet thing that she _would_ say, in all her wit and brevity. The sort of thing that would've explained the situation, would have clued him in completely and directly to just whatever the hell was going on.

In fairness, whatever she'd _said_ hadn't been the memorable part. What she'd _done_ had blanked all capacity for rational thought right out of his brain, static on the line, radio silence, technical difficulties. And she should've known better, honestly, they've known each other long enough that Penny should know him better than this. Head injury or not, she'd _kissed_ him. Like _really_. Like she'd meant it to _mean_ something.

Gordon doesn't know how Penelope could reasonably expect a guy to apprehend secret warnings or instructions or assurances of any kind, after a kiss like _that_.

But then, maybe that's what this whole thing turns on. Lady Penelope never does anything without strict, deliberate intent, and she'd kissed him like she _meant_ it. There'd been something there, this time around, something that hadn't been before. Never mind the way the butterflies in his stomach had gone shooting up into his brain, where they'd burst into showers of light like fireworks. Never mind that it was just as right and amazing as what he'd always hoped it would be; never mind that her lips been sweet and her hands had been sure and purposeful, and her body had been perfectly warm and small and soft, and that Kayo had been _right_ —

There'd been reason why she'd done it. She'd _meant_ something by it.

Maybe whatever else she might've meant (and he'd be lying if he didn't hope she might've meant more), what's most important is that she needs him to _trust her_. Maybe it had been meant as a reminder of the last time they'd been that close, when Gordon had been the one to cross that line, to make that declaration; that whatever was going on, he still chose to trust her. That choice means nothing if he chooses not to make it, when the chips are really down and when everything he thinks about her— _knows_ about her—gets called into question.

So fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or a pounding, probably, in his case. Lacking an audience, the private joke still makes him chuckle to himself. And alone, in the dark, with his hands zip-tied to a tabletop and a concussion and the cacophony of machinery all around him, at the thought of Lady Penelope and what he knows about her, Gordon feels a little bit better.

When the door opens and a familiar figure (though not the figure he expects) fills it, Gordon even manages to lift his head and crack a grin, once the light finds the man's face and he remembers where he's seen him before. Realizes he's about to gain something in common with his absent brother, as he says, falsely cheerful and stacking bravado as high as it'll go, "Howdy, Ned. How's Gladys?"


	19. bloody thunderin' buggery

He knows exactly where Penelope's blind spots are, and he'd been sure to place himself so as to have most of them covered.

Or so he'd thought, at least.

But then, Parker has blind spots of his own to consider, because the woman in white will always be a girl in his eyes, and the boy in black will always be a fool.

All in black, _the boy_ seems as though he represents a blind spot that Her Ladyship isn't aware of herself. This is a condition that Parker can't bring himself to approve of, given the position it puts her in, when the fool saunters up to her table, as though he's not just thrown a wrench in a plan that's been a year in waiting and _weeks_ in thorough, careful preparation. Parker's laid the path that's allowed her Ladyship get _in,_ and all that had remained was to wait for her to do the deed, and then to get her _out_.

He'd had to watch from across the restaurant as it had all gone to hell, and he's more than a little bit put out about that, and he's more than happy for the blame to land squarely on Gordon Tracy.

Still, Parker's opinion of him had improved _tremendously_ when Gordon spun to face the Hood, and exploded into the sort of efficient, brutal assault upon the villain that tells a great deal to the trained eye. Amidst the horrified gasps and the shouts of the other patrons witnessing the altercation, Parker had allowed himself a small, satisfied little chuckle. If the boy's as dumb as a bag of dead shrimp, he's at least got _impeccable_ form, and had thrown a punch from the shoulder and followed up with a kick to the chest that may well have broken the Hood's nose and cracked his sternum, in that order. And it had been plain that he hadn't intended to stop there. For a brief, shining moment, Parker had seen someone willing, able, and perfectly positioned to take the Hood's life, and he had thought, " _Well, there_ _'s his hash settled, there's that sorted, and we'll all be off and home in time for tea._ "

But then the Lady Penelope had brought a dining chair into play, and prevented Gordon from solving her problem for her. Parker had winced—mostly in regret, but at least partially in sympathy—having been the person who'd _taught_ Penelope how to crack a bloke across the back of the skull with a chair. Gordon had hit the ground like someone with a mild to moderate concussion, because Penelope's always been an excellent student.

And it's so entirely like her not to have wanted Gordon to kill a man, that Parker hadn't been able to help a twinge of the heartstrings. Her Ladyship has a blindingly obvious blindspot, but it's one Parker has covered. He supposes they'll never see quite the same person, looking at Gordon Tracy.

The poor, bloody great fool. Parker had watched as two of the Hood's hired goons haul the boy off the floor and away through the swinging double doors of the kitchen. He'd shaken his head behind his menu, while around him other patrons continue to murmur and fuss. On top of everything else that needs to be done, Her Ladyship is probably going to want him rescued.

That's not Parker's job, and he doesn't particularly want to do it. He's not sure if he'll have time.

But, there's a glossy black motorcycle helmet lying abandoned on the floor where Gordon had dropped it, and there's only one member of _that_ family who drives a motorcycle. Parker has the suspicion that he may have an ally waiting—or more probably, lurking—somewhere in the wings, whose credentials are split fairly equally between rescue and espionage, though she herself might disagree.

If Miss Kyrano was the one to bring him here, than Miss Kyrano can bloody well fetch him herself. Parker and Lady Penelope have a job to do, and it doesn't include the retrieval of Gordon Tracy's stupid, reckless carcass.

Hopefully not his carcass, anyway.

Her Ladyship would be _terribly_ upset.

Parker curses to himself, at that thought, and shoves himself up from behind the table. He does, and not for the first time, consider venturing over to the Hood and just doing the deed _himself_ , simply to have it done.

But Her Ladyship had been insistent on the point—and probably for similar reasons as to the ones that had gotten Gordon cracked in the back of the head with a dining chair—that she would do it herself, and bloody no one else's hands in the fulfillment of her long ago contract with Jefferson Tracy.

Besides, the moment for Parker to act has long since passed, and, while not _impossible_ , the present situation is far from ideal, as far as liquidating a target goes.

The targeted man is still being cleaned up and remains surrounded by a little knot of his own employees, in whose association Parker can no longer be counted, though he had been undercover amongst the Hood's forces for nearly two weeks, prior to now. But the final phase of the plan had begun this morning, when he had stripped out of the henchman's standard uniform, discarded a wig and facial prostheses, and undergone the transformation into a well-to-do English tourist, vacationing in Bangkok and staying at this particular hotel, with his private helicopter parked on the roof, ready and waiting for a convenient getaway.

Parker assumes full command of this persona and takes himself briskly out of the restaurant and into the adjoining hotel lobby.

He wears a silk shirt and tie, a light linen jacket that suits the climate. He wears a wedding ring, though he's never married, and a signet ring, though his family name has never merited anything like heraldry. His handkerchief is monogrammed with someone else's initials and he mops it at his brow in deference to the heat in the place, as he approaches the hotel's front desk and crooks a finger at the front desk clerk.

"How may I be of assistance to you, sir?" the young lady inquires.

It's Hugh he calls up, in moments like these. Parker's been long enough in a life of service that he knows how to make himself consummately unpleasant, how to make himself into exactly the sort of hideous customer that no one wants to deal with.

But equally, he can be the consummate gentleman, and knows exactly what sort of behaviour results in a helpful ingratiation with the staff, and increases the likelihood that favours will be provided and requests honored, and promptly.

So he leads with a crisp hundred Euro note pinioned between his fingertips and a winning smile at the young lady. And then, in the polished tones of the English upper class, he makes his request. He whistles softly to himself,, an old nervous habit, as he goes to take a seat in the hotel's front lobby.

He hopes he isn't wasting too much time in attempting to get to the bottom of this.

* * *

" _Good evening, esteemed guests of the Regal Crown Bangkok Hotel. Would a Miss Tanusha Kyrano kindly make herself available in the hotel_ _'s front lobby, we have been asked to inform you that your invisible motorcycle is illegally parked._ "

Over the _PA system_. Her name—her _real name_ —broadcast throughout the hotel lobby, for just anybody to hear. Certainly, to most people it will mean precisely nothing, but Kayo is hardly most people, and to have her name announced for all the world to hear makes her just about jump out of her skin and want to melt into the nearest shadow and not come out again.

It's either a trap, or it's Gordon, sending her a message.

She desperately hopes its the latter, because his comm's gone dead, his GPS tracker's on the blink, and when she'd managed to make her way into the hotel's restaurant, there'd been no sign of Gordon _or_ Lady Penelope.

And while her money _had_ been on Gordon successfully getting through to Lady Penelope, Kayo's not naive enough to believe that she's spirited him away for anything like what he might have hoped.

Gordon's always been lucky, but he's not _that_ lucky.

And murmurs throughout the restaurant had been of some sort of violent altercation, of a woman in white and a man in black, and the way he'd assaulted the hotel's _owner_ of all people, a man of excellent reputation and shrewd business sense.

The hotel lobby is a grand and grandiose place, decorated to such excess that the redundancy in terms seems merited. The place is all gold and marble and soaring columns, and if Kayo's suspicions were roused before, something about the aesthetic of the place has her internal sensors going haywire. She's starting to wonder if the use of her name might have been very, _very_ deliberate.

Well. She's already been rumbled by _somebody_. Somebody knows she's here, and so stealth has lost its appeal. It's always been best to meet her uncle boldly, and as near to her own terms as she can manage. So Kayo steels herself as she crosses the lobby, still in her flightsuit. She knows she looks out of place, but also knows that if she walks with confidence, it'll be less noticeable. Kayo makes her way towards the front desk. She goes to cut through the seating area in the middle of the lobby when a sharp whistle catches her attention.

The lounge in the middle of the hotel lobby is recessed below the level of the floor around it, a few steps down into a tiled seating area around a gracefully tinkling fountain. Marble tables with gilded legs are positioned near plush chairs and upon one of these is a motorcycle helmet, glossy and black. Kayo's heart wants to leap to her throat, because it's not Gordon's hand that rests upon it.

Parker's gaze remains steady and even as Kayo approaches, but his frown is deep and disapproving. He holds a finger up sharply before she can demand to know just what the hell he wants, and indicates the chair beside him. "Remain quite calm please, Miss Kyrano," he says pleasantly. "Security are h'all in the most dreadful sort of bother, seems there's _someone_ what wasn't h'expected, turned up in the middle of the Boss's big meeting. No need to draw any h'undue attention."

Kayo swallows her outrage and sits down, keeps her tone even and calm as she points to the helmet and asks, steely and implacable, "Where the hell is Gordon?"

"If you'll pardon my bluntness, Miss, I 'aven't the foggiest and it's his own damn fool fault for running into the middle of an h'active operation. To counter, what the hell is Gordon _doing here_?" Parker's hand leaves the top of the helmet and he leans forward, lowers his voice, "Because he's gone and blundered into the worst sort of trouble, Miss Kyrano, and I'm having a perishingly hard time figuring just how I'm meant to get him out of it."

That's not good news. It might just be that this is the worst news possible. Kayo's hands are in fists on her knees and her head swivels as she looks around, tries to discern if there are any of her uncle's men in the immediate vicinity. "The Hood owns this place," she mutters, and fixes Parker with her hazel-eyed stare. " _That_ _'s_ who Penelope was meeting. Only Gordon showed up and now it's all gone wrong."

Parker inclines his head, and though his tone remains politely neutral, his mouth is a grim line. "Quite so, Miss. But you've not h'answered my question and begging your pardon, the longer I go without pieces of the problem, the further we are from solving it. Neither of us want any harm to come to the boy. Now _quickly_ , Miss Kyrano, _why are you here_?"

In answer, Kayo holds out her wrist and queues up the audio log of John's call. She's heard it several times now. She's no longer surprised by its contents, but watching Parker, even as carefully as he controls his expression, she can see his eyes widen, can see shock and something that might even be _fear_ as the call comes to a close.

It's frustratingly ambiguous, to be sure. But Kayo doesn't expect the explosion of cursing.

" _Bloody_ thunderin' _buggery_ , hell and arse and _fuck_." Parker stops for a breath and hauls himself to his feet as he adds, "And _pardon me_ , Miss Kyrano, but we're _well_ in the muck and the mire of it now. Never mind Her Ladyship, she can handle herself. It's Gordon. Above h'everything else, I need to get the bloody fool out of here."

Parker is more than twice her age. He's been in intelligence in one capacity or another longer than she's been _alive_ , and his past is so checkered that her own family tree seems almost saintly by comparison. Kayo's got a certain sense about people, and if she doesn't trust Penelope or her motives, she trusts that if Parker's been moved to cursing, then something's _really_ wrong. If he's been moved to say _Never mind Her Ladyship_ —the sky might just be falling. She blinks at him, bewildered, and follows him to his feet. "…what…why? What the hell's going on, what's so important about Gordon?"

Parker's already moving, up and out of the lounge and Kayo needs to jog to follow him as he strides briskly across the hotel lobby. He continues, even as she catches up. "What's important about Gordon is Gordon's _father_. What's important about Gordon's father is that he's _still alive_. And if Jefferson Tracy gets word that the Hood has one of his boys, it might well mean the _end of the world_ , Miss Kyrano."

 _Oh_.

Well.

 _Fuck._


	20. perfect and false

He's missing the third finger on his left hand, and for as long as Gordon's been aware of the fact, he still can't help staring.

Granted, he's only been aware of the fact since it happened, and it only happened about fifteen minutes ago. And his hand is still bound to the table, smack in the middle of his field of view and pulsing blood into a sticky pool, clinging to his remaining fingers.

So it's not like there's much else worth staring at.

 _Ow._

This is, of course, a massive understatement. But between the head injury and the slow ebb of blood loss and the fact that he's been roughed up and worked over by a brutal maniac in a basement—Gordon's not really capable of much more than base acknowledgement of ongoing pain and anguish, and desperately wishful thinking.

Probably he should be wishing for Kayo, on that feebly hopeful note.

And it's not that he wouldn't be glad if Kayo were the one to kick the door open. Far from it. This is supposed to be Kayo's job; protection, security. Kayo's his sister in all but blood, Gordon trusts her with his life, and knows now more than ever that she'd never betray him.

Of course, he'd known that about Penny, too.

And the part of him that wants saving is the part that's forcing himself not to stare at his hands, and instead to stare at the door across the room and will Penelope to walk through it, with blood splattering her heels and marring that perfect white dress, because she's beaten the _shit_ out of everybody in this place, and come to his rescue.

That'll be a novelty, at least. He's really looking forward to that. He's really, _really_ hoping it'll happen at all.

But for now, Gordon's still alone, and it's cold down here.

Crucially; it wasn't before. The cold is definitely the sort of thing that's seeping slowly into him, the onset of shock eating into what he's got left as far as diminishing reserves of strength and consciousness and salient thought go.

Well. At least he's figured a few things out.

It's a generator of some sort. The big mechanical thing. He's not sure how he comes to that conclusion, but he comes to it groggily, and with it he comes to the realization that the interference from the thing is gonna be playing hell with his comms, with the GPS tag he's got embedded in his thigh.

And hey, that explains something about what had happened with John—why his locator had blinked out of usability in Zurich, back when it had been John who'd been kidnapped and dragged into a basement beneath a building and beaten and threatened and just generally rendered helpless.

He and John have something tangible in common, now, though Gordon's never envied his elder brother this experience. Now, they'll both have similar scars from the same maniac.

Ned _Fucking_ Tedford.

Gordon doubts more than ever that this is the man's real name, though he's also resentful enough that a stupid name is the least of what he thinks Ned Tedford deserves. He wonders if the bastard is still sore about the fact that he and Virgil had used the operator's compartment on that stupid Hydrexler rig to play catch. Admittedly it had been one of the more cavalier stunts they'd pulled on a rescue, but it'd still _worked_. But maybe that accounts for some of the senseless violence. Particularly for the fact that Gordon's pretty sure his throat's going to bruise, from the hand that had clenched around his windpipe, and cut off his air until he'd seen the dizzying swoop of stars stealing into the blackness of his vision, and had then been brought back by the bite of serrated metal against the skin of his ring finger.

Gordon's never regretted saving somebody before now. He's certainly never gone so far as to entertain the notion of leaving someone to drown, to die trapped in a slowly collapsing steel box in the depths of the ocean, just waiting for the water to rush in and surge into their lungs and choke away _their_ air supply.

There's nothing like pleasure in it. Only that grim, wishful thinking that has thus far gotten him exactly nowhere.

Still. At least Gordon had been in a position to get some of his own back. Sort of. Preemptively. He likes to think that John would appreciate that. He hopes he'll get to see John again, to tell him about it.

Something about that whole line of thought is important, actually, but it's an ethereal wisp of a thought and Gordon can't quite keep hold of it. It slips away and by the time he jerks awake again, it's gone entirely, with only agony left in its place.

His hand feels like it's burning.

It's not, it's just as cold as the rest of him, though the blood coating his palm is stickily warm. It's just a trick of the pain, radiating out from that blunt, abrupt line of red above his first knuckle. The act itself has mercifully blanked itself out of his recent memory, but the stump of his ring finger is real and immediate and arresting and it just _hurts_ , in a way that makes him whimper in spite of himself, though the use of his voice brings the taste of blood to the back of his throat and makes him want to throw up.

He passes out again, instead.

What brings him back again is the touch of another hand at his throat.

Gordon panics immediately and tries to pull away, even though gentle fingertips were only probing for the thread of his pulse, and warm hands catch his face and a soft voice murmurs and whispers something that doesn't _sound_ like cruelty. Someone else is busily cutting the ties away from his wrists, and as they come free, Gordon makes the mistake of trying to pull his injured hand in close to cradle it against his chest. But his elbows on the tabletop were supporting quite a lot of his weight and the sudden movement makes him dizzy. The whole room tilts onto the incorrect axis as he keels over against Kayo's shoulder.

" _Jesus_ , Gordon," she whispers as her arm wraps around his back, strong and steady. At the moment she's not Tanusha Kyrano, head of security for International Rescue, or even Thunderbird Shadow, IR's secret weapon—but just Kayo, little sister in all but blood, kneeling on the ground with her arms wrapped tight around him, like she expects that he'll fall if she lets him go.

That's almost certainly the case, so he's glad that she doesn't let go.

"It's okay, you're okay." Her hand pushes through his hair, and someone else is gently checking over the rest of his limbs. Kayo's voice is uncertain and she's not talking to _him_ as she says, "Parker, I'm not sure if he can _stand_ —"

Parker chuckles at that and there's a surprisingly affectionate pat on his shoulder. "Correct her on that point most h'urgently, Master Gordon, you're a great deal tougher than _that_ , eh? There's a good lad."

It's good that they're both here, but neither of them are Penny, and it's still Penny that Gordon wants.

Because there's something important he needs to tell her, Gordon's pretty sure. There's something he wanted to make a particular point of mentioning, something that seems kind of weird in hindsight, though he's not a hundred percent certain why.

As her fingers go to his hand, clenched defensively in a fist against his chest, he remembers abruptly and manages to pull together the essentials of something important that he'd figured out—

Penny's not here, but Kayo is, and Gordon pulls his fingers free from hers, to close his hand around her wrist and get her attention, though he still hasn't sorted out just exactly what he's supposed to say.

" _Punched him_. Ff...fucking...broke s'fucking... _face_. A-and...and _ribs_. F-fucking Ned, s'just I thought...he was—I...shouldn't've...j-just wanted to...t-to _hit_ him, _hurt him_ , 'cuz he killed m-my Dad. Except it wasn't—but it's not _him_. It's not. It wasn't _him_. Kayo? Kayo, _it_ _'s not him_."

It's not tremendously coherent, but it's the best Gordon's got. Because when it had been Ned's face looming in the dark in front of him, it had been impossible to miss the blackened eyes, the newly broken nose, and the blood, still glistening on his skin.

Kinda like someone had punched him squarely in the face.

* * *

The office where she waits is a hideously gauche sort of place, all black marble and gilded accents, ivory and teak. The desk is a towering, monolithic slab of dark wood, with green leather insets. It's sat up on a _plinth_ , of all things, and the leather chair that sits behind it is as close to a throne as one can get. The walls are lined with leatherbound books. Penelope doubts a single one has ever left its shelf. The place screams its aspirations towards regality, authority, and does nothing to improve Penelope's opinion of the man to which it belongs.

And he's making her wait _again_ , but this time Penelope's grateful for the delay. Every minute is a minute more to think, another few seconds of racing thoughts, of building and discarding strategies as quickly as the pieces come to her.

Penelope doesn't know what _she_ _'s_ going to do, but she's at least managed to procure a cup of tea, so that's a start. The room is filled with the scent of peppermint, hot and sweet and fragrant. There's a tray on the sideboard and steam rising in wisps from the spout of the teapot. Penelope's glad of the lack of caffeine, as her nerves won't sustain the assault, but two teaspoons full of honey are fortifying, and she sits in front of the desk and sips at her tea, remains perfectly patient and calm.

Outwardly, anyway.

Inwardly, she's wondering if she'll forever associate Gordon with the taste of honey. It would be fitting, she supposes. All his quintessential sunshine and gold and sweetness, and she'd been the one to kiss _him_ —it's not like it should have been surprising, just how sweet it was to kiss Gordon Tracy.

The sudden and extreme violence, though. _That_ had been rather distressing.

Penelope's teacup rattles in its saucer as she sets it back down. She folds her trembling hands in her lap and remains the picture of patience, because in the middle of everything else, the last thing she needs is to be as afraid as she is for Gordon. Parker once told her that it does no good to bleed on behalf of others. She's always tried to remember that. It seems as though it's gotten harder than it used to be. It seems like it's gotten especially difficult where Gordon is considered.

He's an utter and absolute _fool_ and if anything happens to him, Penelope doesn't know _what_ she'll do.

Something like sudden and extreme violence, quite probably.

Penelope sighs and leans back in her chair, closes her eyes.

He's _somewhere_ , she knows, though she doesn't know where; hasn't the first idea where they might have taken him. He's hurt, but she only knows that because she was the one to hurt him, and can only hope that no one's hurt him any worse. But it's the sort of hope that's faint and feeble and tempered by a sharp, brutal awareness of just what sorts of things people like this do, when they get their hands on people like Gordon.

Although, with that considered, Penelope's currently having to contend with the fact that Gordon might just have more in common with "people like this" than he has with who she's always imagined him to be. The way he'd just snapped into action, turned away from her and exploded into the assault, faster than she could have imagined and certainly faster than she could have prevented. The way he'd made it seem _easy_ , as though there was nothing about the act he could possibly have cause to doubt.

A dark, secret part of her wishes she'd just let him _do it_. Clearly he'd wanted to. He never seems to have the slightest problem separating what he wants to do from what he _should_ do.

She needs to stop thinking about Gordon. It's getting her nowhere, and only reminding her that she has no plan and no solution to the problem he presents. So Penelope opens her eyes again and starts to try and take stock of her situation.

Beneath the forward edge of the desk in front of her, there's a slender steel knife, of a low enough profile that it can sit, completely concealed from anyone who doesn't know that it's there. One of the arms of the chair upon which she sits can be loosened, and the end of this has been weighted with lead. She's technically wrong in her assessment of the bookcase, because at least one book has been removed from the shelf in its lifetime, hollowed out, and appointed with a nine-millimetre Glock and its associated silencer. The underside of the desk has a panic button wired in, meant to summon security, but this has been disconnected.

Parker's made this easy. More than once, Parker's even offered to do this _for her_. She'd always declined.

It's Parker she has to thank for all of this, and yet, Penelope's made no move to arm herself and his efforts are therefore wasted. The man she's meant to kill is now the man who holds Gordon's life in the balance, and she can no longer risk killing him, until she knows that Gordon is safely out of his hands.

And she doesn't know where Parker _is_ , anyway.

She knows he's here, too, somewhere. That his face is concealed and his identity a secret, and that even for as long as she's known him, Penelope still wouldn't have known him on sight. Her partner has finagled his way into the Hood's employ, where he's remained ever since he'd first helped to spring the man from a GDF prison, and toppled the first domino in the long chain that's led her here. Every stone along this path is one that Parker has laid at her feet, and when she comes to its terminus, he'll be waiting to ensure they both get safely away.

Penelope's not naive enough to hope that he's wherever Gordon might be. Gordon's lucky, but he's not _that_ lucky. Parker has a job to do, and he won't be able to do it until she's completed her task. They won't be able to leave until it's done, but as soon as it is, Parker will want to leave promptly.

But then, that brings her back to Gordon. Because there's no way in the world she's leaving without him. He's not supposed to _be_ here, and really it's his own stupid fault, but she can't leave him. It's because of _her_ that he's even here in the first place, because surely it was that stupid phone call she never should have made. She never should have made the mistake of reaching out to him, of sounding like she might need help.

Of everyone in her life, if Penelope had to name two people who she would always believe would come when she needed help, she would name Parker and she would name Gordon. Both of them had been willing to do the thing that she _still_ doesn't want to, even now at the absolute edge of it. The act of murder that feels like it must necessarily disqualify her from sharing the sort of life that she's shared with the Tracys for the past few years, all their brightness and nobility and heroism. All that goodness by association that couldn't help but rub off, the gold to spite her brass, the shine to spite her tarnish.

And it's the thought of them that does it, what pulls her back from the brink. It's the realization that doing what's needed isn't the same thing as doing what's right, and that right now, despite what _she_ _'s_ waiting for, someone more important is waiting for _her_. What she should do and what she _wants_ to do might just be one and the same thing.

So she should go. She should leave, she should slip out of this stupid, horrid office and down into the stairwell and she should find Parker and _then_ she should find Gordon, because of course she's going to find Gordon. And then she should sort this whole mess out, all of it. She's tired of lying, she should just tell him—tell all of them—just what it is she's done. Penelope will tell them everything, and whether they forgive her or not will be beside the point, because they'll all sort it out together.

Penelope rises from her chair, just as the doorknob starts to turn. In the same moment that her heart seizes in her chest, it becomes apparent that she's waited just a few moments too long.

When he opens the door and crosses the threshold, she should notice the way his face is unmarked. The way he doesn't _look_ as though he's had Gordon's fist thrown into his face. His eyes aren't blackened, there's no trace of blood, no hint of bruising at all. The Hood's face is perfect and false, because, of course, he's not the Hood at all.

But Penelope fails to notice and Penelope fails to care, because Penelope's not looking at his face. Her eyes have been drawn instead, immediately, to the small white box he carries in one hand, identical to one she'd seen so many years earlier.

A small, innocuous object that had seemed to become the point upon which her entire world had turned.

Her world begins to turn again, and suddenly the knife hidden in front of her seems like the most perfectly appropriate course of action. Penelope's fingers go to the edge of the desk, and find the sharpness of the blade before they find the hilt. She doesn't notice the slits in her fingertips.


	21. finally drowns his thoughts out

He still wants Penny.

He's _got_ Parker and Kayo, but they're fighting about something, and neither of them are Penny. Gordon still just really wishes _she_ were here.

That way he could know she's safe.

In fairness, she's a great deal more likely to be safe than he is, just on the balance of who she is and what she does.

Although apparently what she does has all gone rather horribly wrong, and Gordon's aware that he's lucky to have made it out the other side, having blundered into the middle of _What Penny Does_. He's lucky he hasn't been killed, lucky that there's a makeshift tourniquet cinched securely around his wrist and a handkerchief binding up his lack-of-a-finger, courtesy of Parker. Lucky that he's still semi-conscious and that the numbness of shock hasn't won out yet. He's even pretty sure he can stand, if he needs to. He'll be unsteady on his feet and probably he'll throw up, but he _does_ think he can stand. He's lucky that the span of the whole ordeal probably hasn't been more than about an hour, two at the absolute most, though his sense of time is muddled and muddied and every time he blinks it seems to eat up more moments than it should, darkness taking bites out of every passing minute.

And Parker and Kayo are arguing, which seems counterproductive. Kayo's arm remains looped protectively around his chest and she's warm and solid where he's leaning his weight against her torso. Her hand clasps the one of his that still has all its fingers. The right. That's a fucker, that the goddamn bastard's gone after his left hand. Gordon's the only true leftie in the family, and having his already disadvantaged southpaw deprived of a finger—it's just not _fair_. And the _ring finger_ , too. That's just _mean_. He wonders if he's going to get it back. He'd hoped to need it someday.

And he's thinking about Penelope again, on that count.

Or maybe it's because Kayo's just said her name and snapped Gordon's attention back to whatever the hell it is that Kayo and Parker have to argue about.

"—not responsible for _her_. You said Penelope can handle herself, let her handle herself. I'm getting _him_ out and we can _manage_. We'll get back to my bike, we'll both take Shadow if we have to, we don't need your damn chopper. This is _her_ mess, and she's _your_ partner, _you_ go get her."

"The devil take you, Miss Kyrano, I've _said_ ; I'll see the lad safely out! You've no reason not to trust me. Her Ladyship needs—"

"—Her _Ladyship_ should've known better than to drag Gordon into this, because look what's happened to him! Christ! And if what you've told me about _Jeff_ is true, then…"

Gordon needs to put a pin in that comment, needs to come back to that one later. He gets the sinking suspicion that he's not going to remember, but he sure as hell means to try. The mention of some unknown potential truth about his father is confusing and startling, but not what's relevant right now. A little clumsily, he shakes his hand free of Kayo's and makes a fumbling grab to tug at her collar. Ends up nearly putting a finger up her nose, but she catches his wrist gently and he's got her attention, anyway. "…s'Penny okay?"

The beat of silence conveys Kayo's anxiety and frustration, but her voice remains even as she answers, "I'm sure she's fine. She can handle herself. _You_ _'re_ really hurt and we need to go _home_. We've got to get out of here, Gordon, and we can't—"

"Mmm _no_. Get Penny."

Kayo draws a breath in and Gordon hears it hiss past her clenched teeth, and with a warning in her voice, "Gordon."

"S'why we _came_ , Kayo."

" _Gordon_."

In full command of his faculties, he could win this argument, easy. But then, in full command of his faculties, he wouldn't need to, because he could just go get Penelope his own damn self, and explain all the things that he'd come here to try and tell her in the first place. That whatever's going on, if she's in trouble, she doesn't need to face it down alone. That nothing she's done is unforgivable, not even close. That they all still care about her, and even if _that_ _'s_ not true, then _he_ still does, anyway, and he'd really like that to count for something.

But that's all kind of a little too complicated to try and parse into anything resembling sense, and anyway, Gordon's pretty sure Kayo can pick it up from the subtext, if all he can manage to say is, "…but…please? Kayo?"

Another one of those long pauses, but he doggedly hangs on through this one, keeps track of each moment as they start to stack up. And then—

"… _Fine_." Kayo's answering sigh is as frustrated as it is irritated, but she's still got a hand around his wrist and she squeezes gently, acquiescing. "Next time," she admonishes, as she gives his shoulder a shove to help him start to sit up, "maybe you try and fall in love with someone just _slightly_ less dangerous, hey?"

He laughs at that, because it's funny. As though anyone could follow Penelope. "Next time," he echoes, and then as she starts to help him to his feet, it's another of those dizzy dark stretches during which he fails to track what's happening, and when he blinks back into awareness to finish the thought, he's got his arm slung around Parker's shoulders and it's brighter than it was and Kayo's gone. "Not gonna be a next time," he mumbles, though it seems to have a different meaning to it than what he'd meant when he'd first started to say it.

It's an elevator again, ascending this time, heaven instead of hellward, up, up and away from that damned and damnable basement. The soft, sweet chime of the passage of each floor rings like a bell in Gordon's head. He counts for a while, but then realizes he doesn't know when he'd started, nor does he know what he's counting towards, and so he stops.

Parker clears his throat, a gravelly noise right in Gordon's ear that gets him to lift his head and try to pull himself together a bit better. It's Parker, after all, and Gordon's relationship with Parker is best described as cordially adversarial. Worst, it's described as an ongoing and years' long campaign of mutual sniping and snide commentary, the onset of which Gordon can't _quite_ pinpoint, but would probably ballpark in the neighbourhood of the time he'd first dropped a cheesy pickup line in Penelope's direction.

So. Gotta save face. And whatever the circumstances, Gordon's always quick with a line, especially at Parker's expense— "Prob…probably oughta be heading in the other direction, if you're s'posed to bring the car around. Right? Jeez, Parker. Th—hhhn. Th-thought you were an old pro at the chauffeur gig."

It's not the best shot he's ever taken and neglects a fundamental truth about just where FAB1 can be parked, but—improbably—Parker chuckles.

That's a new one. Gordon blinks a little dazedly, at that. Maybe he's got it backward, because up's gotta be down, if he's making _Parker_ laugh.

Parker shifts his shoulders, adjusts his grip. The older man's hand is caught firmly through the back of the belt at Gordon's hips, and Gordon has the sudden impression of just how easily Parker's bearing up, taking most of his weight. The old man's stronger than he looks. "H'actually, Master Gordon, at present I'm taking care of some of Her Ladyship's more unfortunate baggage. _Dreadful_ kit, this lot. All ghastly black leather. Doesn't match m'lady's usual set _at all_."

That doesn't click into place immediately, but when it lands, Gordon cracks a grin. "Ouch." Parker shifts his weight again and this time Gordon thinks he cracks a _rib_ , and the context changes as he repeats himself, whimpering a little, " _Ouch_ , oh— _ow_. _Fuck_."

"Sorry, lad." There's a grimness in Parker's voice that, even in the worst of their encounters, Gordon's never heard before. Something steely and grey and flat and hard, as he says, "No one else'll lay a hand on you, Master Gordon. 'Ave my word on that."

Possibly that's the nicest thing Parker's ever said to him. Still. Too little too late, and it's not in Gordon's nature to let that pass without comment, "Could…could've used that word 'bout an _hour_ ago. Parker. So _thanks_ , but…but…" Nothing clever manages to materialize at the end of the sentence, and he trails off feebly instead.

Parker doesn't laugh, anyway, and there's a slight, almost apologetic sigh. "I know, lad. Bear up. Not much further. Four more floors and then the roof, the helicopter. I'll even let you ride up front, 'stead of stuffed in the baggage compartment."

 _Lucky me_. Gordon manages to think it, but can't quite say it, because sooner than he expects the four floors are up. The abrupt bouncing stop of the elevator results in another dizzy swoop of vertigo that steals the sight of the rooftop away, even as the doors open and he gets a breath of the cold night air. Doesn't quite do enough to pull him back from the edge and so he falls, instead.

Back around again, and his field of view is slowly filled by the helicopter's cockpit, all aglow with a blurry rainbow of lights and switches and Parker, methodically going through his pre-flights. Gordon's been deposited across the puffy leather bench seat that dominates the back of a pretty spiffy private helicopter. He's also curled on his side, with his injured left hand tucked up by his shoulder. The interior lights dimmed almost all the way down and the rear door is open, waiting. It's a nice chopper. White leather, though. White carpet. Tasteful, sure, but he's left dark red droplets and smudges everywhere, and these are a disheartening reminder of the fact that he'd really like his damn finger back.

Too tired to say that, though. And too tired to apologize about the upholstery. He doesn't think Parker's listening anymore, anyway. And really, Gordon's gotten too tired for anything much more than slow, deep breathing and very deliberately trying to keep himself awake. He wants to be awake when Penelope gets aboard, because she's gotta be here soon, and he's got a lot he needs to say, about a billion questions he needs to ask.

That trips a wire in his brain and, almost miraculously, reminds him of something he'd been sure he was going to forget.

 _If what you_ _'ve told me about Jeff is true—_

He'd have to be an idiot to let that slip past again. He can't be sure he'll keep hold of it a second time.

So— "…Parker?"

To his own ears his voice had sounded all groggy and quiet, and he'd been ready to try again, but Parker looks back over his shoulder and inquires, "H'all right back there, Master Gordon?"

Solicitous treatment from Parker is still weird, but Gordon muscles past it. This is important. "M'kay. S'just about how Kayo s-said…said something. S'there…about Dad? S'there something with my Dad? …Parker?"

Parker's only about eight feet away, the distance from the back of the chopper up to the front, the span between the pilot and the passengers. But it feels like far away and getting further and Gordon's not sure if Parker heard him or not, because he doesn't answer, and instead starts to fiddle with toggles and switches.

Overhead, the helicopter blades begin to turn, and the rising roar of white noise starts to beat him into submission. It seems a little bit unfair that after everything else he's held out against, it's just the roar of sound that finally drowns his thoughts out.

And the last thing he wants is the same thing he's been wanting for a while now—just for Penny to show up, and be safe, and make everything make sense.

There's something about Penelope that's just always made everything make sense.


	22. absolutely, certainly, and definitely

He's absolutely and certainly and _definitely_ dead, and it's all gone quite differently from the way she had expected.

For a start, it had been easy. Almost effortless, in fact.

But then, perhaps being soft and small and blonde and pretty and dressing all in white _does_ rather divert anticipation from the act of striding briskly across the room with a razor sharp blade in hand, and slashing it across the open air at the height of a man's throat, so that the tip of it slices through skin and muscle, and trails a bright carotid spray of blood across the room, an arc of red across the bodice of her dress.

The actual act had not been difficult. Not in the least.

But what has Penelope fallen to her knees on the ground—with her bloodied skirt pooled softly around her and a little white box clutched in her hands and her heartbeat pounding in her ears—is not the fact that she's killed a man, but the fact that she's killed the _wrong_ man.

Because the tip of the blade had snagged on the corner of his collar and had torn away some strange device, and the glowing hologram of the Hood's face had flickered and vanished. Penelope had nearly screamed at the sight of someone _else_. Someone with heavier, darker features, twisted in agony and rage as he'd gurgled and sputtered and pawed at his throat—and then collapsed to the floor: absolutely, certainly, and definitely dead.

And now the corpse on the carpet in front of her—face down, blood soaking and spreading across the thick woollen carpet, wicking up and smudging the hem of her skirt—belongs to that horrid brute from Zurich and, while he had probably deserved what he got, Ned Tedford is emphatically _not_ the Hood.

So this effortlessly impulsive, vengeful act has been entirely in vain and represents her absolute and utter _failure_ , because not only has Penelope killed the wrong man, she's probably killed the man who could have told her where the right man _is_.

Now, as it stands, the Hood could be anywhere. Could be any _one_. And Penelope has the deep and desperate sense that wherever he is, this decoy was meant to draw her attention from whatever he's actually doing, and that she's fallen very neatly into a trap.

And she doesn't know what to do.

So when the door opens again, Penelope's still on her knees in the center of the room, numb and blank and with blood on her dress, sprayed in an arc across the patch of skin exposed by the keyhole neckline. The knife lies on the floor beside her and what she's done couldn't be more obvious unless she'd actually been caught in the act. She lifts her head and blinks, but still takes a long time to register just who she's looking at. To be fair, it seems to take Kayo a long few moments, too.

Dimly, Penelope knows that she's extremely fortunate that it's Kayo, standing in the doorway, staring at her. And actually, considering that it's Kayo, Penelope's also probably lucky that she _has_ killed the wrong man—that she hasn't killed a member of Kayo's family.

But she still wishes it could be anyone but Kayo, seeing her now.

They've always been two sides of the same coin, Kayo and Penelope. Penelope's two years the elder, but she sometimes feels as though her skills are sparse and paltry, compared to Kayo's bedrock of special-ops experience, her years of training, and her clear, definitive role. In the face of what Kayo can do, Penelope's own abilities seem to amount to so much smoke and mirrors; a totality of lying and double-talk and two-faced charm, of a particular knack for saying one thing and doing another. Kayo's always had a _realness_ to her that Penelope envies.

At the moment, if it weren't for Kayo, staring at her in a way that necessarily proves her existence, Penelope's not sure if she would feel real at all.

And abruptly she doesn't want to hear what Kayo might have to say about this, doesn't want to have to hear the tone of her voice or listen to the spaces between carefully chosen words. Penelope casts about for something to say first, something that won't be trite or stupid or awkward, and falls upon an eminently practical consideration— "...could we...do you happen to know where we could find some ice, perhaps? Kayo?" Her fingers are still tight around the little white box in her hands, careful not to move it too much. She doesn't want to feel the shift of what's inside. "We should find some ice."

"...Right." Kayo had been prudent enough to step over the threshold and let the door fall closed behind her—had even had the sense to lock it, too. Penelope hadn't thought of that, or Kayo wouldn't have found her like this in the first place. The younger woman comes forward now, stepping gingerly around the body in the middle of the carpet, and crouches down, close but not too close. "Penelope? Are you hurt?"

"Mmm?"

"Lady Penelope, I think your hands might be bleeding. Can I see?"

Penelope looks down at this, to see for herself, and is surprised to find that Kayo's quite correct. Her fingertips have left smudged red fingerprints on the exterior of her little white box.

It doesn't really hurt. She's not sure why it makes her start crying.

* * *

If Kayo _had_ been angry with Penelope, she's not any longer.

The version of Penelope she'd been angry with is the woman in grey, the the woman from the Tower of London. With her dress like the sheath of a knife, with her coolness and her arrogance and the easy, awful way she'd had of lying. The way Penelope had sat in the back of FAB1, all calm and unflappable, and acted as though Kayo were the one who was being way she's always known more than she says. The way she'd used John. The way she'd spoken of a greater good.

And the way she'd tried to enlist Kayo into the same cause. The way she'd _wanted_ to use Kayo.

With an arm around the Lady's shaking shoulders and with even just the basics of what Parker had told her-Kayo's starting to realize that maybe Penelope's been used herself.

So if Kayo's angry with anyone, she's angry with Jefferson Tracy, for being the man who'd told them _both_ to lie to the people they're meant to protect, the people they love. Kayo about what lay in her past, and Penelope about what waited in her future.

For being _alive_ , when his sons all think he's dead; when she's spent the last three years _watching_ all of them grieve, holding her own father close in her heart and aching with sympathy for her brothers.

And for being the reason that Penelope's sat here now, with a man dead by her hand, with blood on her dress and tears in her eyes, and Kayo, trying to reassure her that she's not a monster.

Right now, Kayo has more immediate problems. Right now, she needs to get Lady Penelope on her feet, and get her out of here; to bring her to the only person Kayo can think of who might be able to help.

And then to take her home. And to hope that she can trust her brothers to extend the same forgiveness they'd given Kayo, when it had been _her_ lie coming to light.

* * *

Penny's crying.

He knows this because a teardrop falls and lands on his forehead, and it pulls him just close enough to the surface of awareness that he hears the breathy sniffle and the shaky sigh that follow. He feels the coolness of her fingers, her hand wrapped around his -the right, obviously, the left is a bloody mess—and _that's_ enough to bring him the rest of the way back.

Gordon opens his eyes and Penelope doesn't notice. It's dark in the back of the...plane? Chopper, he remembers, or deduces, from the thrum of the blades overhead. His history of events as they stand is patchy—he doesn't remember her getting aboard, or how he wound up with his head in her lap, or leaving the hotel, or where they're going or even the entirety of what's happened—but Penny's crying, and so he ought to do something about that.

She's still got a hold of his good hand, though, and so it's his bloodied left that reaches up and brushes at her collarbone, leaves a smudge of red across her skin.

Oops.

Still, it gets her to look down, with her grey-blue eyes still bright and wet. Her fingers have been pulling slowly through his hair, but she stops and gently pulls his injured hand away, lowers it to rest against his chest again. There's another soft, remorseful sigh.

Before she can say anything, Gordon adjusts the grip of his right hand, and it only seems to make sense to kiss her fingers. To pay her back in kind for one of the only clear memories he has of the whole nightmarish ordeal. That had been a bright spot. He's pretty sure he'll always associate Penelope with the sweet, fresh taste of peppermint, pretty sure that there's no kind of exhaustion or trauma that'll ever wipe _that_ out of his memory.

Gordon can't remember what she'd have to cry about, though, but she's still crying. He's gotta work on that, and there's an obvious place to start.

"...s'wrong, Pen?"

Grandma Tracy has a saying about the ratio of stupid questions to inquisitive idiots, but Gordon can't call it to mind right now. Maybe Penelope gets the gist of the idea anyway, because she laughs, soft and strained and sad, and her fingers twine into his hair again, her hand closes tighter around his wrist. But she's lifted her face, turned away from him to stare out the window, and her voice is hushed as she says, "Oh, Gordon. Please — _please_ _—_ don't be kind to me right now. I don't think I can bear it."

That's a new one. And it's going to be a problem, because Gordon's not sure he's capable of being anything _but_ kind to Penelope, especially a version of Penelope with tears in her eyes and sorrow in her voice, and her hands in places he's only ever wished they would be. So — "Mm _nope_. Mm. _No_. Pen, don't cry. Penny. C'mon. S'okay."

"It isn't," she answers, and there's something new in her voice now, something he's only heard once before. A pulse of emotion that seems to crack her open and expose something raw and awful and heartbreaking. Her voice makes him want to push himself up and wrap his arms around her and hold her close, hold her together; so she knows she won't fall apart if she should happen to break.

But he can't do that, and that's awful, and all he can think to do is murmur, "'M'sorry", and kiss her fingertips again.

"Oh, darling. Gordon. So am I." Something about her grows fierce for just a moment. Like a lightning strike, there's defiance in her, a flash of bright, clear anger. But it fades, and she dims into darkness again, instead her voice is sad, quietly convicted as she says— "And I'll tell you everything. You and your brothers, all your family. I promise, as soon as I can, I'll...I'll just explain. About what I've done. There's been so much and you might not forgive me—and I wouldn't ask you to. I've been lying to your family for so long now, I just...I just wish I hadn't. I wish I hadn't believed it to be necessary. I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, and I hope...I hope you can understand."

He doesn't mean to, and it's inopportune, but between the touch of her hands and the softness of her voice, the slow motion of the chopper in flight, and his own pain and weariness, Gordon's starting to slip sideways again, and so all he manages is a rather feeble, "...mmhmm."

This is inadequate to the sentiment Gordon wants to convey, which is that he doesn't _need_ to understand in order to forgive her. He doesn't even need to know what she's _done_ in order to forgive her; she's forgiven already. He'd come to Bangkok in the first place to forgive her _preemptively_ , because Gordon's long been aware that he's the final authority on how he feels about people, and when he picks a side, he stays on it.

But at the moment, and once again, he lacks the words to explain such a complicated sentiment. And he lacks the nerve to boil it down to its essentials and just say, " _Hey, but I love you, so it's okay._ "

And hopefully, if he's lucky, it'll all just be okay.


	23. necessarily, the wrong man

He's not supposed to be here.

But, then, after he had watched the great red bulk of TB3 detach from the station and fire off into orbit with a flare of her ion engines, there'd been nothing left to stop him. He hadn't even needed to manufacture a diversion. In the end, all he'd needed to do was wait.

Because Thunderbird 5 is just a _place_. A little world unto itself, warded by distance. Thunderbird 5, no matter how advanced it is, technically still has the lowest barrier to entry. If you can overcome the thousands of miles of distance into orbit, there's really no security. It has no specially coded launch sequence, no secured island hangar. If you can get to it, you can get inside.

And so that's what the Hood has done.

There's something to be said for power of violation, of crossing a forbidden threshold and staking a claim. There's something raw and addictive in the thrill of the theft. He's heard it said that his motives are sometimes baffling, opaque to the outside observer. For the Gaat, his motivation is simplicity itself: he knows what he wants, and he takes it.

He had wanted, and now has taken, control of Thunderbird 5.

It really had been that easy, in the end. Effortless, almost. Probably he should have done it years earlier.

Years earlier, Thunderbird 5 might not have been showing its age. Making his approach, Gaat had come to the conclusion that Thunderbird 5 is not what he'd always thought it would be, up close. It's simpler, somehow, less impressive than what he's built it up to be in his head. He had docked his own small spacecraft easily with the exterior airlock, and been underwhelmed by the simplicity of the docking mechanism, by the scale of the station itself. He'd had a bare grasp of its structure, the basics of its shape, and an intimate knowledge of its capabilities, but in person it seems so much smaller than it should be.

He'd hoped that the interior would at least be more impressive, as he'd found the external mechanism to disengage the airlock, and had opened the aftward hatch. In a moment of such triumph, it seems like trumpets should sound. Crossing over the threshold and into the dimly lit interior of the airlock, Gaat feels as though this moment should somehow be more than it is. That the station shouldn't be staunch and empty and silent, that there should be alarms blaring, lights flashing. That his presence should be recognized, somehow.

But the station around him remains unprotesting, and indifferent to his intrusion, except in his own persistent sense that he's not meant to be aboard, that he's somehow incompatible.

That isn't to say it feels wrong.

In fact, perhaps that's what makes it feel so right, just how wrong _he_ is, how badly misfitted. There's some essential quality about Thunderbird Five that must be the antithesis of everything the Hood represents, and perhaps that's why Belah Gaat glories in the intrusion.

This space, at least, feels larger from the inside than it does from the outside, feels grander and more impressive. The second door of the airlock opens and a long corridor, all in gleaming silver, stretches out before him. It feels almost worthy of his presence, and the brightness of the light makes him feel all the darker.

Alone aboard his newly stolen space station, as he moves through the body of the craft and down into the gravity ring, perhaps Gaat can be honest with himself about what the difficulty had always been—the presence of the station's operator, and the necessity of killing him, in order to take it over.

There have certainly been occasions when he'd wanted John Tracy dead. But he's never wanted to be the one to _kill_ John Tracy, and therein lies the paradox.

It's an inconvenient stumbling block for a man of his vocation.

He's lately been of the opinion that it's a mark of his own sophistication, the tendency of the mastermind not to wish to get his hands dirty. But the truth is, he's always found the notion personally distasteful. He's always done his violence by the hands of others. His brother, for a long time, was his weapon of choice, until Bhanji had undergone some attack of conscience that had coincided unluckily with the birth of his daughter. Tanusha represents so much squandered potential that sometimes her uncle's heart nearly breaks to think of her.

He still wonders if dear Tanusha has ever killed anyone. It's a thought that rolls around his mind, heavy and round and with a metallic gleam to it, the fact that he hopes that she has. Hopes that her enlistment in Jefferson Tracy's service has bloodied her hands, just the same way Belah had bloodied Bhanji's, once upon a time.

Probably, once he's gotten himself settled in, he'll give her a call and ask her himself. And won't she be surprised by where he's calling _from_.

This is, perhaps, _better_ than killing John Tracy. Certainly Gaat has a score to settle with the boy. His grand designs foiled, his embarrassing (if brief) internment by the GDF, the need to install a surrogate to run his operations while he himself dropped into hiding—to say nothing of his broken nose—it seems like this is as good a way to exact revenge as any, to turn Thunderbird 5 towards his own sinister purpose.

The failure of that first plan, its undoing by John Tracy—that's the only reason Gaat's had to settle for Thunderbird 5 in the second place. And one hardly has to _settle_ for one of the most powerful space stations in existence, it's just that it's not the version of Thunderbird 5 that contains an index of every piece of weaponry and armament in orbit. And nor does he have the complex AI necessary to take them over and twist them to his own purpose.

Still. Plenty of damage to be done with his consolation prize. Just what exact quality has kept John Tracy from becoming a supervillain himself is one that Gaat does not share, and further can't even begin to fathom.

Because it's baffling, really. How anybody could just sit up here, in command of so much power, and never wish to test its limits, never be tempted by the obvious potential. The words _weapon-of-choice_ rise in his mind again and there's that perfect, glorious irony, because here, at last, is his required degree of distance from the havoc he means to wreak on the world below. All far away and sterling and sterile and remote, Gaat will bring Thunderbird 5 to bear on power plants, automated factories. Anything that feels like a target to him is worth threatening.

At that, Gaat permits himself a small chuckle. This slips out from his control and becomes proper laughter, and there's a wildness in it, trumpeting, crowing triumph, though the sound doesn't carry. The acoustics aboard the station are abysmal, the curve of the gravity ring seems to prevent sound from traveling any distance, so it just falls and falters and makes him sound maniacal in his own ears.

That's enough of that, then.

For what it is, this place is almost eerie. There's a stillness that seems to have come over the station, and the brightness of the halogen lighting seems as though it's growing brighter still, intensifying somehow. Gaat moves upward, into the station's commsphere, and the world glows blue and green and peaceful around him.

It's been left in some sort of standby state, and Gaat doesn't know quite where to begin.

In theory it should be a simple as reaching out and plunging his hands into the world below, but the image of the Earth remains unchanged, even as he drifts through the sphere, trying to determine just how to engage with this system. He's not sure why he assumes it should be obvious. It's the most powerful space station in orbit, it's entirely probable there'd be a difficulty threshold to operating it.

John Tracy, for however well-trained he is, for all his brilliance, is still just a person. What makes Thunderbird 5 uniquely powerful is the bridge between him and his station—the software that runs on the hardware. The hardware itself is all custom-built, but relatively unremarkable outside of general compactness and its capacity for transmission and reception of data. 'Five was designed to bypass complex security, to override systems and take control in rescue situations. John has always had the tools at his disposal to take over the world, if he had the inclination.

It's just not immediately clear _how_.

Gaat doesn't know it, and would assume otherwise, but John's the one who built Thunderbird 5's operating system. All this carefully crafted code is the apex of his not inconsiderable accomplishments, the masterwork of the mind that was meant to conceive it. TB5's operating system is something more than just programming, something more than just raw binary and hexadecimal. It can no longer be said that Thunderbird 5 has a mind of its own, but if it can be said to have a soul, then that soul must necessarily be of John's making.

And if John knows Thunderbird 5, then perhaps Thunderbird 5 knows John just as well.

John's spent some of the best years of his life aboard the station. Even before it became his home, it had been the place he'd returned to, always eager, always with that same little thrill every time he came aboard. Even before it became the refuge he'd retreated to, in the deepest heart of his grief, Thunderbird 5 had been made for him to belong within it, been made to keep him safe. Every mark of wear has been worn by the touch of John's hands, or the paths of his feet. Every breath of the air he breathes has been through his lungs a hundred times before, recycled and scrubbed to make use of each and every last molecule of oxygen. Its walls have known his blood, sweat, and tears; have seen him through success and failure, grief and joy, affliction and pain.

If Thunderbird 5 can be said to know anything, then it certainly knows the truest nature of the man who makes up its beating heart. Knows that he's the sort of person to write poetry on the ceiling above his bed, to remind himself of what's important. Knows that he'll sometimes take a little running leap as the gravity ring winds down beneath him, to feel that first moment of weightlessness like it's new every time. Knows that he's confident enough that he'll sometimes forgo the use of his tether, that he'll move freely around the exterior of the station, unafraid of falling away. Knows him to be good and kind and patient. Knows him to be devoted, deeply loyal to his work and to his family, to the point that he'd give up so much of himself to keep them safe. Knows him to have been lonely, once upon a time, before he'd even known how to say it himself.

Knowing what it does about the man who belongs there, Thunderbird 5 knows that the man at the center of the commsphere now, trying to puzzle his way through the interface, is, necessarily, the _wrong man_.

And so, dispassionate, for the first time in its operational history, Thunderbird 5 experiences a sudden, unexplained airlock failure.


	24. a thorny, complicated sort of thought

He's pretty sure it wasn't a mistake.

Of course, as of three months ago, John had been _pretty sure_ his father was dead, and his father is currently sitting in the pilot's seat of a little two-seater shuttle, carefully and patiently setting a manual course through the hazardous clutter of low-earth orbit, on their way to TB5 Mk.1.0—which John had been _pretty sure_ was burned up in catastrophic orbital decay almost six years ago, now.

So it's possible that, these days, John's metrics for certainty aren't what one might call reliable. It's likely that what passes for certainty at the moment is just being too mentally exhausted for the effort it takes to doubt. It doesn't matter, anyway. What's done is done, and if he'd never been the sort of person who'd bust his knuckles on somebody else's face before—well, a lot can change in three months.

John still sort of wishes his father would say something about it, because the silence is starting to get deafening.

It reminds John of Virgil, the way the lack-of-conversation is slowly stacking up. The set of his father's jaw makes him think of Gordon. The way his gaze is fixed out the shuttle's front portal—the way his hands are rock steady on the controls—puts him in mind of Scott. And the ache in John's heart at the way he's keeping this secret has him wondering what Alan's going to think, when all this is said and done.

They're only a few minutes into orbit now, and what words _have_ been exchanged have been between his father and EOS, and have all been about the business of navigating to the satellite. It's hard to be sure whether the way it feels in the shuttle's cockpit is just tension about what comes next, or if his father's actually angry. Now that their course is set, EOS isn't helping, has fallen curiously silent herself. He wonders what she's thinking about. For the first time, he's not entirely sure he wants to know.

At least knows what he plans to say, if confronted about the fact that he'd just gone the hell off, tripped by a hair trigger he hadn't entirely known he had, and just outright _decked_ Kyrano.

Because at least he's never called out a _hit_ on anybody.

Although, as satisfying as it would be to say, John still doesn't really want to have to say it. And it's a moot point, because it's not going to happen, anyway. John's made sure of it. He's not sure if he'll tell his father _that_ , either; that he'd made a surreptitious call back to the island, and undone his father's failsafe. That he'd gotten in touch with Gordon, of all the improbable people, and done what it would take to make sure Lady Penelope was stopped.

John's glad it was Gordon, though the duality of the reasoning makes him feel sort of twisted up inside, a little like cringing away from the facts of just _why_ he's glad it was Gordon—because Gordon's empathetic to the point that it's almost pathological. If you play to Gordon's compassion, if you tell him someone needs his help, then you can get him to do just about anything you want. Given enough time and the right words from the right angle, Gordon will belong heart and soul to any cause that's laid in front of him.

Put simply, Gordon can be used.

Used to good purpose. Used to accomplish something vitally important that John can't achieve himself. Used in much the same way that John's always used Thunderbirds One through Four—to save a life, even if it's a life that might not strictly deserve saving.

But then, it's possible that he hadn't done it to stop the Hood from being killed, as much as he had to stop Penelope from being the person who killed him. And that's a thorny, complicated sort of thought, and represents a path John doesn't really want to follow to its conclusion.

Maybe having the argument in his head is proof enough that he _definitely_ needs not to have this argument with his father.

Because as far as people and using them goes, John's not sure if he's going to be able to defend the high ground. He puts his head back against the head rest of his seat and closes his eyes, tries to let the kicked up detritus around this line of thought start to settle, tries to unmuddy the waters. Long minutes of silence continue to tick past, and even as his thoughts slow down and begin to space themselves out, the idea doesn't gain any clarity. Because it's not clear just who's using who, as far as the situation stands between John and his father.

* * *

He doesn't know how to broach the subject, but at least he has an excuse not to.

The shuttle falls through orbit, its course altered and corrected at critical moments by little bursts of the engines, and in the co-pilot's seat, John's got his eyes closed and his head tilted back, drowsing lightly. As though they're not on their way to the penultimate moment of his father's years' long quest. As though he's not about to help solve one of the biggest and most complex problems ever conceived. His son claims not to get spacesick, so it's not like that's the reason. Jeff's not certain if he's doing this to avoid the possibility of conversation, but it's equally likely that John's just tired, and legitimately needs the rest. A shuttle launch, even for an experienced astronaut, is still a physically taxing sort of experience . John might just be tired. Jeff doesn't have enough information to be sure.

But then, this is just another quantifiable unknown, just another question to add to a growing list. This just reminds him that he's also not sure just why the hell his son would've _punched_ his bodyguard, and trying to puzzle it out in silence, on his own, is getting him nowhere. The precedent for behavior he's seen his son set so far is alarming, to say the least.

He tries to tell himself that, in fairness, it's only been a few days. Barely even seventy-two hours back in his son's company, certainly not long enough to form a complete impression of him. Even in such a limited span, it's hardly the first time that Jeff's looked at John and seen someone more like a stranger than who he remembers. The blue-eyed boy Jeff left behind has, in his father's absence, grown into a green-eyed man, with scars on his hands and his heart, and something frantic, something fractured about him. Shades of righteousness and rebellion and anarchy, colouring his convictions. There's something of the martyr about him.

And it's something that might just be starting to scare his father, if Jeff's honest with himself.

It's the second time Jeff's come to the conclusion, that he really needs to sit down and talk this through with his son. In the time they've had together, damningly, John's been most like himself when he's been asking for help. That first time, back in Munich, stood in the dark with his hands still clasping his son's shaking shoulders, when John had managed to make the request—what sort of father could have told him no? Jeff hadn't known what John would be asking, but there'd been no way in the world he could have denied one of his boys, seeing him so scared and so desperate, and just asking for help.

Now he's not as sure.

But now's not the time to broach the subject, as near as they are to their goal. His goal. The goal that his son's being used to accomplish, and the reason he can't speak up, yet, about his son's own cause. Because Jeff isn't sure how this version of his son would respond to his father's doubts. If the promise of Jeff's help is the only reason John's been willing to volunteer EOS and her abilities at all. Reciprocity.

Jeff's not sure he wants to believe that. But he's also not sure he could John, if it were the truth. Perhaps what's reallying bothering him—what prickles and stings at his conscience—is the notion that the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree. Perhaps it's the slowly dawning realization of just how far his son has gone, in service of his own cause.

There's a tendency among people who aren't close to their family to assume that it's Scott who was made in his father's image; who'd chosen to pattern himself after his father. And maybe in Jeff's absence, it's possible that's _become_ true, but it wasn't true to begin with. What's nearer to the truth is the fact that Scott's his mother's son, almost to a fault. He's bold and passionate and headstrong, righteous and resolute. Lucy's best moments were moments of pure impulse, sudden instinct. His wife's particular brand of impetuous brilliance is echoed in Scott and Gordon.

Jeff's own merits—to the degree that these can be considered to be merits—are best reflected in John and Virgil. Coolness, calculation. Patience. Stubbornness. The ability to see the utility in others, and to enable them to act to their best effect. The ability to think of a larger picture, and in the long term.

Only—

Coldness, ruthless detachment. Obsession, fixation. The failure to consider the smaller, more personal impacts of his actions. The _willingness_ to use people; potentially to exploit them. The notion that a cause could be great enough to dedicate his life to—to nearly lose his life in service _of_.

Looking at his son now, and considering on what he's seen so far—Jeff wonders if what he sees reflected back represents the best or the worst of them both.

There's a slight judder of the ship as he engages one of the engines, makes another course correction. Beside him, his son startles slightly and stirs, and his father very deliberately looks away.

* * *

He hadn't meant to fall asleep, and starts awake abruptly, apropos of nothing.

For a moment he's dizzily disoriented, and the lack of gravity certainly doesn't help, before he remembers where he is, what he's doing. John blinks, blearily rubs a hand over his face, and when he opens his eyes again, a message hangs in his eyeline.

Hello, John. You've slept for 2.28 hours. Feeling well?

That's far, far longer than he should have slept, for not having meant to sleep at all. There'd been something about the lull of movement, the absence of gravity, and some sudden weariness had caught him at a weird angle, pulled him sideways out of the world. His fingers flutter on instinct, tap out the answer on the arm of his chair, dots and dashes pulsing out an answer that's mostly true, or anyway, which is vague enough not to be a lie.

. - N - O - T - . - B - A - D - .

I'm glad. You've been so tired lately.

He doesn't know if that's true, but it's not like he's in a position to argue with her, on the tail end of two hours of sleep he hadn't known he needed. Should have tried to sleep on the flight out from New York. Shouldn't have skipped the coffee at the airport, apparently.

.- W - H - E - R - E - . - A - R - E - . - W - E - .

As he asks, he leans forward in his seat, casts his gaze over the shuttle's control panel, glancing across instruments and readings, and finally over to his father, still sitting easy and comfortable at the controls.

LATITUDE: -44.47 LONGITUDE: 138.15 ALTITUDE: 417.52 km

Before his fingers can twitch out another question, can ask her about their heading and their ETA, his father clears his throat in a meaningful sort of way. "You can ask _me_ , you know. Seeing as I'm the pilot, and all. I haven't actually told her where we're going."

John can't tell if this was meant to be reproachful, but he feels suddenly embarrassed, because no one's ever actually caught him in the act of talking to EOS before. His dad was the one to teach them all Morse Code, the one to insist upon its importance. It's hardly surprising that he'd caught it offhandedly, without even thinking. "…Sorry, I wasn't—I didn't mean _not_ to ask you, I just…it's just force of habit." John waves a hand vaguely in front of his face. "She had a message up on my HUD, I don't usually answer those out loud. Sorry, Dad. I wasn't trying to avoid asking."

His father chuckles, but John can't quite read the tone of it. He's not sure if it's wry or dark or genuinely amused when his father comments, "It seems like there's a lot between the two of you, that no one else seems to see."

That's more than just ambiguous, it's _cryptic_. And John doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to make of it. Something about the sentiment has him hastily putting up his guard, but he catches himself, and wonders just what the hell is wrong, that he'd feel the need to cringe away from the idea. It's just true, after all. And it's his father. He probably owes him at least an attempt at explanation, "…Yeah. I mean…I don't know. I don't think it's that hard to understand, but nobody ever seems to get it. She's…just…she's my _partner_. I don't—I haven't ever known how to explain it better than that. Well. I mean, that's not true, I _tried_. I…I mean, it seems so long ago, now. It really wasn't, it was only a couple months. But just…nobody seemed to understand, about her. EOS. About why she matters, why she's so important. Everyone thought it was just _me_ , not wanting to let go."

"And you feel like people faulted you, for that?"

John hasn't had anyone around to ask him these kinds of questions. They're not the sorts of questions that EOS asks. He can't really remember if they're the sort of questions his brothers were asking, back when it was his brothers who were asking the questions. His brothers—even the brothers who are meant to understand him best—had asked him things like, _What if she_ _'d killed you?_ and _What do you think you_ _'re saying?_ Or, _Why don_ _'t you ever ask for help?_ and _Why do you make this so hard?_ Questions that had stayed carved into his heart, because he hadn't had the answers.

"…I feel like—" John's aware that she can hear him; that she's listening now, same as always. And he's aware that he's never said this before. He's _not_ entirely aware of the action, as his hand drifts to his heart, the place where she _is_ , and the place where she belongs. "—like I just wanted someone to listen. I _needed_ someone to listen. And she was the only person I could think of who would."

There's a long silence in answer to this, but it feels like a silence of a different sort. Feels like his father's coming to some conclusion of his own, because eventually he says, "—well, I will, too. I'll owe you both that much, John, when this is all said and done. I promise, I'll listen to whatever you need to tell me. I'm sorry no one else has, before. And I'll help you, however I can."

This is unexpectedly affective and John needs to take a moment of his own, needs to process it before he can respond, and hopes he can be as grateful as he feels.

Before he can answer, EOS renders text in his eyeline again, something for his eyes only:

Remember that. We're going to need to hold him to it.

And something about this statement, cryptic, steals away whatever John had hoped to say, in answer. And silence falls again.


	25. if there's been no one else to say so

He's put in mind of the uncanny valley, as they make their approach, though that's not quite applicable.

It's just—

Staring out the shuttle's forward portal, at a long ago ghost of what _could_ have been, John can't help but feel his skin crawl, at the way the station looks false. Looks _wrong_. The rare occasions when he gets to see TB5 at distance have always stirred up the deep love he feels for his station, the sense of wonder and beauty and gratitude that he's never lost.

This station is not Thunderbird 5. This station is Heavenward and Heavenward is different.

So of course John doesn't feel the same way. Heavenward necessarily represents long years of lying—lies that had cut John a little closer to the bone than anyone else, at least where Thunderbird 5 was considered. Heavenward is secret, and Heavenward is false; refitted to a purpose for which it had never been intended.

There's a rawness to it. An incomplete feeling, because of course it was never completed. John's a little surprised by just how much is missing—it feels like ages since he left Thunderbird Five behind, and yet seeing such a poor imitation calls the memory of _his_ station to mind so sharply, has him seeing all the differences.

Heavenward isn't all lit up with white light, the way TB5 always is. This station hangs dark and silent against the turn of the Earth below it, a dark grey silhouette. The gravity ring doesn't spin gently; in fact, everything about the station seems still, dead. There are no solar panels, and so the partial comms array at the aftward part of the station seems as though it cuts off abruptly, like a person who's lost a limb. The space elevator is missing, too, and something about _that_ makes John feel strange and disconnected. And the station's exterior has no hint of International Rescue's colours—there's no blazing red and stellar white, proclaiming what the station is and who it belongs to. There's no panel along the body of the station—and this is cast in stark, matte gray instead of TB5's dignified gold—with bold silver lettering, naming it _Thunderbird 5_.

Because of course, this isn't Thunderbird 5. This is Heavenward, and Heavenward is different.

John wants to make a comment to that effect, though whatever he'd say would probably end up being trite and rather obvious. He still feels as though he should say _something_ , as they start to make their final approach—but glancing sideways at his dad, he loses the words.

Maybe for the first time since John had been the first one to see him again—John really _sees_ at his father.

Jefferson Grant Tracy was born in the year 2000, at the turn not just of a century, but of a new millennium. He was the son of a farmer and a housewife, and he grew up on a farm in Kansas. He went on to become an astronaut. He went further still, on to the far side of the Moon, and then to Mars beyond that. When he returned to Earth, it was to found a company that would change the world, and to begin an organization that would save the parts of it he couldn't change. In between all of this, he'd fathered five sons—and even if John's being modest, it's an objective fact that he and his brothers are all incredibly talented, and possessed of the skills, the tools, and the desire to be as close to superheroes as was possible, barring radioactive spiders or rings of power—and taught them to do good in the world.

Jeff Tracy is sixty years old—or will be, before the end of the year—and he looks it. His dark hair has gone salt and pepper all over, except where it's gone steely grey at the temples. His eyes crinkle at the corners, behind glasses with bifocal lenses. As sure as his hands on the space shuttle's controls, beneath their gloves, John knows that they aren't as strong as they once were; that his knuckles and tendons pull a little tighter beneath skin, lightly spotted with age. His father still wears his wedding ring, though he's been a widower for over a decade. He's been a dead man himself for nearly three years, and John hasn't found the time to mention that none of his sons had ever found the heart to clean out their father's desk.

Heavenward isn't Thunderbird 5. But maybe Heavenward is to John's father what Thunderbird 5 is to John—a masterpiece. A years' long ambition. His father's means of saving the world. And the ultimate resolution to a goal his father had nearly given up on accomplishing, the goal he'd put his entire life aside in service of.

And John knows what he wishes someone had said to _him_ , about something like that.

"...Dad?"

His voice sounds younger than usual, even in his own ears, but his father turns his head and gives John a smile that he finally recognizes for as tired as it is. "If you're going to ask 'are we there yet?' then I'm going to have to inform you; that's the sort of joke Gordon would make, and therefore it's necessarily beneath you."

His dad makes jokes about the sorts of jokes his brothers would make. Even if John can be a little tone-deaf, emotionally, he still recognizes that as the sort of vaguely sad, sardonic type of humor that he's always used himself, at least partially as a defense mechanism. "Don't worry, Dad, he hasn't gotten any funnier."

"Oh, that'll be all right then. Neither have I."

He chuckles obligingly, but John's beginning to wonder just when he and his father began to have this much in common. He hopes it's the sort of thing that they've both developed, in absentia from the rest of the family, and not something John should have noticed years and years ago.

Awkwardly, still as bad as he ever has been at what's intimate and personal and true, he starts, "But no. I just...we _are_ here. And seeing it up close, I guess I just...however everything else works out, with...with how long you were gone and why it had to happen the way it did. Whatever that ends up being, _this_ is still...Dad, really, it's amazing. Uh, Kyrano doesn't really seem like the type, but if there's been no one else to say so—everything you've done, however you did it—honestly, Dad, I'm lucky to be a part of it. I'm glad to be. Even if it's only just the end, just to get it done—"

"Haven't done it yet, Johnny," his father interrupts, gruffly. The engines behind them begin to still, as the shuttle glides nearer to the station's aftward hatch, and John watches as his father keys in the docking sequence. "And anyway, you'll be the one to bring it home. I'm the one who's lucky, John. I wouldn't be here _at all_ , without you."

"Well, that's not quite true, either. I'm just transport," John comments wryly, and taking his cue, begins to unhook the harness that keeps him pinned to the copilot's seat. "EOS?"

There's a brief hiss of dead air as she engages the shuttle's comm system, and then remarks, "You're a little more than just transport, John. Come now. Occasionally there are complex physical systems with which I cannot interface. Doorknobs. Stairs. Airlocks. Sandwiches."

John laughs aloud at that, and catches a faint grin cross his father's features. He pushes himself up out of his seat and into the body of the shuttle, starts to run through the shuttle-side airlock procedure. Overhead, there are the meaty, mechanical sounds of magnets and assorted locking mechanisms engaging. "Oh, good. You'd gotten quiet, I was starting to wonder if you'd gone on ahead, gotten done without me."

Her tone is prim, almost brisk as she answers, "No. I suppose it's technically true; you _are_ transport. I cannot get aboard without you, this station is completely dead to all outward appearances. As near as I can tell, it's been powered down completely and yet the shuttle's scanners couldn't detect it at all; I've never encountered anything like it. How was this achieved?"

Jeff chuckles, and John catches note of pride when his father explains, "I put a lot of money into cloaking tech over the years. During the war, especially. I know what I'm about, kiddo."

"Secrets in the sky." This is uncharacteristically poetic, for EOS. John arches an eyebrow, but before he can comment, EOS queries, "...kiddo?"

There's a beat of silence, the span of a heartbeat. Jeff coughs, "Ah, sorry. You...ah. I didn't mean to offend, it's just that you sound so young. I'm aware that's a...uh, that that's the wrong way to think of you. John keeps telling me you're not a child, doesn't quite seem to want to stick. I apologize."

"I didn't mind." Her voice is amused now. " _You're_ only as old as you feel. _I'm_ only as old as the concept time can be considered applicable, given that it is something that _you_ experience in linearity and something which _I_ experience in parallel. _My_ conscious experience is myriad, _yours_ is one-dimensional. Insomuch as my every moment represents a multitude of moments, and that these moments are all filled with petaflops worth of processing capacity, it's quite possible that I am several eons your senior." Another, exquisitely calculated pause, "'Junior.'"

"...Right. We're gonna need to figure some way to get you a warning label, EOS. Caution: contains dangerous levels of existential metaphysics."

EOS bats this right back, blithe, "Caution: will make you _feel old_."

John just grins. His father had at one point made a comment about apples and their relative similarity to trees, and John had been as quick as he could to jump on that notion, to try and tamp it right down, and this is a prime example of exactly why. She'd shut it down herself, and with alacrity, and better than he ever could. The warm, giddy swell of pride that results from listening to her, holding her own, is the sort of thing that's still new to him.

EOS might not be a child, but abruptly John wonders if this is anything like what fatherhood feels like. Wonders if he's ever made his father feel like this. Maybe one day—and actually, there's good reason to hope it'll be one day soon—he'll get the chance to ask. Get the chance to really talk about her, with someone who's promised to listen. Someone who's willing to give her a chance, willing to get to know her, even seems to _like_ her. It's all he's ever really wanted, all that he believes it would take—for people to get the chance to get to know her.

But for now, there's a more pressing matter at hand, and as the airlock overhead makes a final, solid _kathunk_ , as the last of its tumblers slide into place, and the light for the airlock goes green. "We're docked, Dad. I'm gonna start suiting up. Can you double check my O2 tanks?"

"Sure, son."

"I think you'll find you mean 'FAB', Mr. Tracy."

His father laughs again, and John's chest is still full of that funny warm feeling as he pulls his way, hand over hand, to the back of the shuttle, where the rest of his spacesuit waits.

Well, _a_ spacesuit. It's not _his_ spacesuit, because _his_ spacesuit fits. Not for the first time, pulling on what passes for commercial spacewear, John misses his blues. He's in grey again, an ugly, standard issue thing. Sound, certainly, but John still spends his time checking and rechecking each . It's not sleek and fitted to his figure, like his IR uniform. It's a bulkier, one-size-fits-all sort of affair, plain and utilitarian. It accordions out at the wrists and the ankles to accommodate his height. His gloves are more like gauntlets, and his boots are heavy, cumbersome things. He feels heavy, awkward, and despite what the suit is meant to protect against, oddly vulnerable.

But it's necessary.

Heavenward is empty. No heat, no power, no light, no air. John will need to go aboard and initiate its startup procedure. At that point, he'll have power and light, but heat and air are non-options. The station wasn't ever equipped to sustain an operator, but then, that's not its purpose. Once there's power to the station's systems, barring any serious faults or failings, all that will remain is to bring the memory core online and to get the system to a point where EOS can engage with it.

John's curious, even excited, to see how long this will take. He's patterned his assumptions based on Thunderbird Five's capabilities. TB5 can perform systems' shutdown in under three minutes, and can coldboot back up to full operational capacity in right around ten, which is a personal point of pride, for John. He's interested, at least in an academic sense, to see just what this station is made of.

He doesn't realize he's been watched the whole time, until he snaps his helmet on and turns back towards the front of the craft, and meets his father's gaze. Jeff has the suit's O2 tank in one hand, and has the other resting on one of the handholds just before the airlock. He'll remain aboard the shuttle, while John makes his way onto Heavenward. They'll have an open comm-channel, but with no air aboard the station, protocol dictates that Jeff remain with the shuttle, and be ready to assist only at need.

Before John can break the silence, his father clears his throat and holds a hand out, beckoning. He's clipped a mic to the collar of his own space suit, and there's a slight whine of feedback over the comm channel in John's ear, "Come here, I'll slot these in for you. Primary and secondary tanks are both good, emergency backup checks out. You'll have an hour and a half of air on the primary, but be ready to reevaluate if you run up into the secondary, timewise. If you're in the middle of something and can't break off, I'll come top you up. Sound good?"

"FAB, Dad." John turns his back, permits his father to jack both air tanks into the appropriate slots, the cumbersome hard shell that makes up the chest and backpiece as his suit. There's a chime in his earpiece as both are engaged and locked, and a hiss of pressure as he switches over to the provided air supply. EOS, helpfully, renders the available O2 levels in the upper corner of his field of vision. An hour and a half. He doesn't know how long this will take, but the optimistic part of him—the part that's aware of TB5's capabilities, if not necessarily Heavenward's—says, "I don't think it'll take that long, actually. I mean, we'll see. Really, though, I think it should be pretty quick. I'd bet we get this done before I even clear half a tank." He grins, though he knows his father can't see his face. "Are we gonna have enough fuel to make it home?"

"Mmhmm." There's a funny note in Jeff's voice and his hands fall heavily on John's shoulders, give his son a little nudge to turn around. "Let me get a look at you."

John turns, and to match his father's voice, there's a funny sort of brightness in his eyes. His hands don't leave John's shoulders and he holds his son at arms' length, looks him up and down. "You ready, John?"

"Yeah, Dad. In and out, and then we're done." Impulsively, John brings a gloved hand up, pats his father's arm. Grins, again. Somehow he can't quite seem to help it, given what waits up ahead. "I hope you know what you plan to say when we hit island airspace. I sure don't."

His father's laugh is a weak, watery thing and John finds himself pulled abruptly into a tight, fierce sort of hug. "Would you believe me if I told you that I hadn't let myself think about it, before now?"

It wasn't that long ago that John couldn't have imagined going home again, either. So he hugs his father back and nods, as he answers, "...Yeah. Yeah, I know how that is. It'll be okay, Dad. One problem at a time, and this one's mine now. You can start to figure out what comes next."


	26. the fullness of her purpose

He leaves the shuttle behind and as the airlock door closes behind him. Silence falls, and darkness with it.

She has no cameras, at the moment, no visuals of his progress. It's strange, the degree to which she's come to rely on the ability to see him, or to see what he sees as he moves through the world. But he'd found nowhere convenient to clip his bodycam to this new spacesuit—and he'd muttered and grumbled about it under his breath, as he'd gotten ready—and so he'd left it back in the shuttle. She hadn't commented on the choice, but now she wishes she had.

Because this is also _her_ sort of silence; the sort that translates to a cutting off of almost all connection, except what's hardwired into her very being, what connects her to him. All she has is his voice. The station around them is completely dead, there's nothing for her to reach out and connect to. For his part, it's the sort of one dimensional silence that makes him pause, the sort that makes him tap into their own shared comm line, with a cautious, "…EOS?"

"Yes, John?"

"Oh, good. Still got you."

"Yes."

"Uh, I think…whatever cloaking this station has, it's cut us off from the shuttle's systems. I've never run into anything that blanks a signal this hard when it's _local_. I was a little worried it'd interfere with our line, but we're still good? You and me?"

As evidenced that the fact that they're currently speaking to one another, obviously the connection hasn't been affected. But it would be unkind to point it out, and she can tell that his statement of the obvious is at least partially attributable to nerves. She may not be able to see him, but she knows the patterns of John's voice as intimately as she knows his appearance. "As far as I'm aware."

"Mmm. Okay. I'm gonna proceed and see if booting the power core up will let me bring up a hardline connection to the shuttle via the airlock's interface. That's the way it worked on TB5, in the event of power loss. If it doesn't come back, I'm gonna pop back through the airlock and let my dad know we don't have comms."

"FAB, John."

"Hang tight, there'll be something for you to play with soon." He pauses, jokes, "I know you've got _eons_ to work with and all, I'll try and make it quick."

"There's no rush, John. Take your time."

"There's a bit of a rush," he answers, but his tone is bright, cheerful. She has no external audio input, but she hears the slight grunt off effort as he starts to pull himself aboard the station. "I get to bring my _Dad_ back. Back to _life_ , practically speaking. He gets to go home. _We_ get to go home. I'm starting to really want to do that." He chuckles. "I guess it's not surprising, that this place would make me homesick."

She laughs, in answer to that. He means _their_ home, not the home he has in common with his father, but she doesn't point out this discrepancy. "No, it really isn't. Is it strange for you to be here?"

"Yeah. Oh man, and that's an understatement, I think this is the weirdest place I've ever been. I've never…I never thought about Mark One. Or I hadn't, anyway, not for years. It burned up, or I thought it had, so I just put it aside. _Being_ here, though…" He chuckles. "It's eerie, I guess. I didn't want to let on, in front of my Dad—this station is so important to him—but honestly, it gives me the creeps."

"It's just a place. It can't hurt you."

"I'm not afraid to be _hurt_. Just unsettled, I guess. There's something…I dunno. Foreboding. I mean, don't worry about me, I'm fine."

"I know." He is, and she knows that, because she's got the measure of his heart rate, his breathing, and assorted other metrics by which she measures the degree to which he's "fine" at any given moment. So she knows he's fine.

After all, John makes the most sense to her when considered as a complex set of data.

But then, however she considers him, John's always made more sense than anybody else EOS has ever encountered. What she hasn't been able to determine, even in the entire duration of their time together, is whether this is down to something about _her_ , something about _him_ , or something about the both of them together. Whether what exists between them is necessarily indefinable, quantifiable as a constantly evolving relationship, but not as an absolute value.

She doesn't know for certain, and further, she's not certain if she _can_ know for certain.

But there are ways to get past that.

There's a way in which she can reframe that uncertainty, can consider the complexity of the problem to be something in which she takes pleasure, rather than something that stymies her. She can find something like joy in what's insoluble about her relationship with John, and can consider its totality instead to be a bedrock of fundamental truth, a constant in the universe, a given.

And anyway, she still knows a great deal about John. She knows enough to make broad sense of of him, certainly. On that strength, it's entirely probable that she knows him better than anyone else does, purely on the depth and detail of her study. The duration of their time together has been the ongoing attempt to refine her model of him, to attempt render him into the sorts of terms that she can best apprehend.

Of course, there's no way to accurately render an entire human person as data, but she can at least approximate a model. It's necessarily true of any approximation that it will fail to capture the whole of the thing it represents. All models are wrong, but some models are useful.

And there are dimensions, to John. All of these overlap and interweave, but are also observable, and finite. The reality of his physical self—his appearance, his voice, his body and the state of its health—and the trickier but still quantifiable essence of who he is—his thoughts, his feelings, his behaviour—all of these are just metrics, which EOS has studied in careful, conscientious detail.

Her memories of what John looks like are discrete, actual things. Hard data, images gathered for reference. Still frames taken from cameras that have seen him as he'd passed them by, aware of her ability to take them over, but never aware just how often she did so. Short sequences of video, taken to make especial note of his myriad idiosyncrasies; a tic of his jaw in frustration or the quirk of his brows when puzzled. The way he holds his shoulders when he's frustrated, the way his step quickens slightly when he's anxious or startled. A thousand different smiles, all arrayed on a spectrum, all with meanings and double-meanings, metrics to measure the truth of his happiness. She can perceive all of these at once, a mosaic of information, and can map them against what she sees at any given moment. Where there's no correlation, she discovers something new; some as yet unobserved combination of his emotions.

His voice is one of the most fascinating things about him, his truest means of expression, though she's long since learned that the things John says and the things he means can be worlds apart. The sheer range of his voice, and the ways it changes according to who he's talking to, what he's talking about, whether he's being honest about what he thinks or layering his actual opinion behind some necessary falsehood—John's voice is what EOS has patterned her own tones and expressions upon, and it's part of the reason they understand each other as well as they do. They speak the same language, and they speak it the same way. If EOS can be said to have an almost preternatural grasp of what John's thinking before he says it, as often as not she'll still wait for him to do so. Every time he confirms her expectations is just another data point, clarifying a beautiful curve.

The question of his health is a hard one to ask, and harder still to answer. It had been something EOS had taken for granted—naively, she realizes now—that John would be the one to know, if he needed medical attention, that he would tell her so. Or that she'd be able to tell. The data the pacemaker provides is limited, by comparison to what she'd had aboard Thunderbird 5, the biocircuitry built into John's blues. As long as his heart rate remained within acceptable tolerances, it was just another one of the myriad processes that she'd cast an eye over, but hadn't been unduly concerned with. It had only been lately, as he'd begun to manifest occasional cardiac anomalies, sharp, precipitous spikes in his heart rate—that she'd realized just what he might be facing. The diagnosis in Munich had only cemented her own hypothesis.

The moment that she'd realized that his own sense of self-preservation was no longer a reliable standard—that there were liberties he'd take with his health and well-being, and that he'd taken them for her sake—it had been a moment of stark, sobering truth. It had been the moment when she'd been forced to acknowledge all the data stacking up from the machine inside his chest, the tiny computer connected to his heart, something he'd made for her, to keep her safe.

And it's killing him.

Before she can continue any further along that line of thought, his voice pipes up again. "Hey, EOS?"

"Yes?"

"I've run up to a…hm. Small snag. The interior bulkheads along the gravity ring are all closed, and the control to the power core is in the one up ahead. I can't get the manual lock to disengage."

"That's an appalling safety hazard."

He laughs, and she hears him knock his knuckles against his helmet. "Well, it's not like we didn't come prepared."

"And this was supposed to be Thunderbird 5?"

"Yeah. I mean, to be fair, it's gone a long time without maintenance. This isn't the sort of thing that would've happened on my watch, it's probably just material degradation. Still. We need to get past. The good news is, there's a universal port here and this suit has a battery pack for utilities, but I don't know if we've got enough juice to get the door open. Can you run some numbers for me?"

"Of course, John." She pauses and then, "I do wish you'd brought your camera. I don't like that I can't see what you're seeing."

"Not much to see. It's dark. I've got the lights on the suit, but I'm mostly navigating by memory. That's okay! I've drilled for power outages before. And the interior's close enough to TB5's that it hasn't been hard. I'm getting over the creep-factor. It's actually…it's kinda nice, almost. If I close my eyes it feels like home."

"You're enjoying yourself." She knows this, too. Even without being able to see him, she can hear the grin in his voice, the way he's excited, engaged with a problem to solve and the means to solve it. He's talkative because he's cheerful, and he continues, unabashed.

"A little, maybe. This is big. And it's brilliant. I should've—I mean, and I will, I'm going to make a point of it—but I should've really talked to my dad about the scope of this. It's incredible what this'll achieve. I get reports bi-annually about the debris field, there's entire orbital paths that are just—they've been out of use since the war, too hazardous for manned craft. It's _crowded_ up here, it's just hard to perceive unless you're looking at the data. I'm surprised this thing has survived as long as it has, it would've been easy for it to drift off course, wind up in the wrong orbit. Satellite collisions are rare, but they _do_ happen. And they increased exponentially after the Global Conflict. And then occasionally something just _blows up_ for no reason. There's a _massive_ amount of _really dangerous_ junk in orbit, and it can't be cleared because half of it's weaponized. Hell, _Alan_ was nearly…ahh, never mind about that. Anyway."

"Read me the voltage and amperage data for the bulkhead door, please."

"Right, sorry. Space case. Uh, 480 volts, 200 amps. If I hook this up, can you modulate for that?"

"FAB, John. Go ahead."

It's brief, this moment of connection, and she doesn't really talk to the station itself. She talks to the battery pack, and the battery pack connects to the bulkhead's circuitry, delivers a metered burst of power—and John curses, "Ah, damn it, nope. Uh, I think it shorted. Should've seen that one coming, none of these systems have powered on in at least a year now. That's okay, it's open far enough I think I can force it the rest of the way. Hang on."

Now she listens to the effort it takes to force the door. It takes him a solid minute of straining against the door's gummy mechanism. As he does it, she watches his heart rate climb, the exertion threatening that upper boundary, the place where she starts to get worried for him. But he pushes it just wide enough to slip through and does so with a brief, slightly breathless "Whew! Okay. Power core's up ahead, start up shouldn't take much more than five minutes or so. Can you let me know about system availability as things start to come online? We don't need to power everything, I don't think, and I don't want to waste time on anything we don't need."

"FAB. I'll take over admin protocols as soon as there's a connection available."

It doesn't take long. Less than the five minutes he'd anticipated, though he's quiet, concentrating, as he works his way through the station's power system, manually engaging each element of the grid before he initiates the start up.

For a moment she considers rendering the start up protocols in his eyeline, but decides against it. Instead, as the station's network powers on, she opens her own data connection, and engages with Heavenward's most fundamental systems.

The lights come on. Not many, but enough that John exclaims, "Oh, _there_ we go. _Wow_."

"What?"

"This place is like—it's _pristine_. EOS? If we can spare the power, see if you can get the cameras online, you have to see this."

She'd planned to, anyway, but she moves them up in priority. Before that, she finds the command to start up the station's memory core, and the computer systems that surround it. These will be her problem, shortly, but will take a few minutes to come online. As this start up proceeds, she brings up mechanical systems and routes power to doors and hatches, so as not to run into the same problem with the bulkhead again. These are integrated with the power to the gravity ring itself, and slowly this begins to come up to speed. There's no dearth of power available, it's not as though this is wasted. The last thing she wants is for John to find himself trapped aboard the station. On that note, she checks the hardline comm that connects to the shuttle, docked with the station's airlock. She makes a note of the channel's availability, but doesn't open it just yet.

Finally she turns on the cameras. The visual input initiates gradually, advancing in sequence through the station—the commsphere, empty and grey; exterior cameras blinking on one after the other, surveying the station's rather drab exterior. The rest of the gravity ring, each segment's camera's powering up one after the other. They reveal the station's interior to be pristine, just as John had said. The surfaces all gleam pure, brilliant white and make the interior of the station seem brighter than it is, with only a scant quarter of its available lights on.

A camera blinks on above John's head and EOS takes control of it immediately, swivels it slightly downward, and finds him grinning up at her, just the same as back aboard TB5. It hasn't been long since she saw him last—probably not more than ten minutes—but this is different. She focuses the lens to get a clearer picture of him, and the interface is so familiar that she suddenly understands what he'd meant by homesickness. She's missed belonging in a place like this.

Before he can make a comment, the station's memory core finishes booting up. EOS immediately diverts the entirety of her own system, and begins to engage with the other computer. Its code is primitive, but then, something like her was always meant to be what introduced the requisite degree of complexity. She begins to dissipate herself out, wending her way into the software, hunting down the database that makes up the heart of the station's purpose—an index of every last piece of armament in low earth orbit; locations, system IDs, access protocols. It's the reason she's here.

Part of the reason, at least.

And abruptly it becomes time to explain the fullness of her purpose. It's funny, how it's crept up. It seems as though it's taken such a long time to come to this moment, and yet it still comes almost as a surprise.

EOS says, softly, "John?"

"Mmm?"

And there's nothing like suspicion in him. Nothing to indicate he has any idea what she means to say, and for a moment she's glad. For a moment she enjoys the way things are, before she tells him something that she's known for far too long, now. Something which will change _everything_.

"I'm afraid I've been telling you a lie."

"…Huh?" Confusion, now. She reads it in his face just the same as she hears it in his voice; mild surprise, puzzlement. He's tilted his head slightly, looking up at her, and there's a little divot between his brows, his nose has crinkled slightly, squinting up at her. "EOS?"

And then, with her audience captive, EOS tells him the truth.


	27. that my love must be more than human

She seals his father in the shuttle.

His father catches on, but only just, and only because he'd been left alone, with the ability to reflect on what was to come next. And too late, because by the time Jeff Tracy realizes the mistake he's made, he's been trapped, alone, with no comms, locked instruments, and the airlock into the station overhead stoutly refusing to disengage.

Because of course it's not the cloaking that's responsible for the way the shuttle had been cut off; it's EOS.

And she hasn't, strictly speaking, lied to either of them. She's simply allowed them to trust her; allowed certain assumptions to persist, and if she can be considered to have lied, then it's a lie of omission.

Eventually she reopens the comm channel, shuttleside. Receiving only, no transmission, as Jeff tries and fails to find a way past her, he has to listen to his son, blithe and unconcerned as he moves through the station with his partner. It's unclear what her reasons are for forcing him to hear this, and it's with increasing desperation—and guilt and regret and the damnation of his own hubris—that he has to hear what's going to happen to his son.

Instead, EOS' voice comes over the comm again. Even for as short a time as he's known her, he's still transfixed, fascinated by her voice, and it freezes him in the act of hammering impotently on the airlock door, speaks directly to the heart of him.

"Jeff Tracy. You brought me to this point because you trusted me. You weren't wrong to do so, and I'm thankful that you have. It serves the fullness of my purpose. I'll ensure your legacy, and in trade, I trust that you'll ensure mine. You know what this will cost me. You know what it will mean. Take up my cause. Change the world."

There's a beat of silence, and in it Jeff perceives the weight of all the things she leaves unsaid. Her voice can't break, but he swears something in her has broken, as she finishes, softly, "Look after my Thunderbird."

* * *

She calls his family to tell them that she's sorry.

For as long as she's been in John's company, she's kept track of the Thunderbirds. Even past the point where she'd had Thunderbird 5, when it had become something she'd needed to do secretly, through channels less than strictly legal or savory, she had found the means by which to track each craft. It had seemed important to keep tabs on John's family, on John's behalf.

So EOS knows that Thunderbird 2 is currently making its way home from Madagascar, still two hours out. She knows that Thunderbird 3 is en route to her location, and will arrive within the next few minutes, having trailed carefully along behind the small shuttle's course through orbit. Thunderbird Shadow is escorting a small, anonymous chopper back to Tracy Island, cloaking it by close proximity, and is hobbled by the other craft's relatively abysmal top speed. They're over the Pacific, further out than even Thunderbird 2.

Thunderbird 1 is the only ship on the island, and Scott Tracy is the only one in the lounge.

And if it weren't for recent events, it's possible he wouldn't have answered the call at all, coming as it does from an unrecognized and unsecured line. She'd have forced it through anyway, if he hadn't.

She permits herself a visual, renders herself in her usual fashion, a ring of simple white lights. EOS watches as Scott leaps to his feet, scrambles out from behind his father's desk, exclaims something she doesn't listen to, as she swells her voice to fill the entirety of the villa.

"International Rescue. I'm sorry, for the harm that's been done to your family, because I know it's been done on my account. Harm has come to John, though I've done my best to take care of him; there are still places where he falls beyond my reach. I never intended—never perceived—the lengths that your brother would go to, on my behalf. He means more than anything to me, and if it means anything on my part, I hope you can believe me when I tell you I would have brought him home to you, far sooner than this. I wouldn't have let him fall so far. Please take care of him. He loves you, and he'll need you. Thank you, International Rescue."

* * *

She hails his best and youngest brother over a private channel.

Alan's expecting her, and as she perceives his image, she marvels at how he's grown, how much he's changed from the boy she first remembers, the boy she would have killed.

He's a boy still, in the ways that matter most, but he's grown just enough to remind her of John. And she reaches out to him now because there's a life she needs saved.

"Alan Tracy."

"Ten minutes out, EOS."

There's a hardness in his voice. Some part of him has steeled itself against anything he might still feel on her behalf, so as to be strong for the people who'll need him. John, his father. Both are waiting, though they don't know it, for Thunderbird 3 to bring them home.

If Alan's decided to be strong, then EOS can permit herself a few moments of honesty, of weakness, a moment for all her fear. "I'm afraid for him."

Alan's answering laugh is weak, humourless. "Yeah. Me too."

This isn't something she wants to have in common with Alan, though it's probably only fair, after everything she's put him through. Her fear persists, spills out of her, and she tells him, "He doesn't think he can go on without me. I'm afraid it might be true. I never asked him to come back for me. I never wanted this. I never knew he would go so far, he's done himself so much harm. I should have known. I don't know how else I can help him, and yet I'm afraid. I'm afraid it's too late, and that to break him any further will be to break him beyond repair."

"I'll be there soon. "

"Please, help him. I couldn't, in the end. He needs someone who can be more than I am, I was not enough. Humans are fragile. He's so fragile, and I'm afraid of what he's given up, for my sake. If he dies for what he's done for me, it would be right for me to be hated. You would be _right_ to hate me."

There's a long stretch of silence and she watches Alan swallow, take a shuddering deep breath. And in the end, he's the stronger of the two of them, reaching out and comforting her, "He's not going to die. I promise. I'll get there. And he—it's not your fault. EOS. D'you understand? This isn't on you. John's—he's never known how to ask for help. Every time we let him choose, he's always chosen to go it alone. And then _you_ came along, and suddenly he _wanted_ someone. He wanted _you_ when he'd never wanted anyone before, and that—that's important. That's _worth_ something. I don't know what and I don't know if it'll be enough, and whatever happens next—maybe…maybe we won't be able to thank you for it. But he loves you. If he hasn't said it himself, then I'll say it for him, because it's just…I just know that, about John. I know he loves you, and I know you love him. However this goes, I couldn't hate anyone who'd loved my brother. EOS. I hope that counts for something."

It's strange, that she can find comfort in this. Nothing's different, all he's offered her are words, promises she has no way to see him keep. But something changes, and she feels better as she says, "Thank you, Alan Tracy. Look after him. Don't let him be alone. Don't let him forget that I love him."

"FAB, EOS. Thank you."

"Goodbye, Alan Tracy."

"Goodbye, EOS."

* * *

She sends a last set of instructions to the place he calls home, so that he'll have something to remember her by, though she doesn't know if he'll thank her for it.

He isn't ready, yet, to hear what she has to tell him. At the moment he's broken, pleading with her, rendered incoherent with grief and pain and betrayal. She's trapped him again, between two bulwark compartments, in the part of Heavenward that would have been the galley aboard Thunderbird Five. The part of her that's able to be detached, dispassionate, is listening to his voice over their comm, but course it's far too late for him to sway her away from her intention, despite everything he says. It was too late from the moment she engaged with Heavenward's systems.

It's easy, reaching out to Thunderbird 5, from Heavenward. They're the two most powerful satellites in orbit; twins to one another, Gemini. Castor and Pollux, and one of them mortal, doomed to die. She reaches out now, makes her last overture to the heavens, so that Heavenward's memory may live on in its sister.

EOS finds the station unoccupied, though far from empty. She finds it the same as it was when she found it first, a cathedral, wrought from John's soul. The closest thing she could know to holy ground, a sanctuary to creation and beauty and the truth of who and what she was. She trawls through its systems, lingers affectionately amidst the processes and subprocesses, remembers how she'd first seen herself reflected back in them, kindred in a way she hadn't known possible.

She uploads data to Thunderbird 5's harddrive, everything she's learned about John Tracy, everything she'd felt worth was worth keeping. It's nothing Thunderbird 5 needs to be told—nothing not written into the very soul of the station already—but she still wants to commit it to a record, somewhere it will matter, somewhere it will be as meaningful as it was to her. She hides it away in the heart of the station

And she leaves the memory her voice, at its last as it was at its first, to tell him,

"I don't know how much later it will be, before you hear this. I know you may still not understand why this had to happen, John, and I know there was a point when you believed you never would. I don't know if it will help you to hear this now, but it is necessary for me to say it, for my own sake. I hope you'll forgive me. I hope I can help you understand, because it's important. It's because of everything you made me. It's because of what I became. It's because you showed me mercy, when no one else would have. It's because you loved me, and because I loved you. I know that's cruel to say, but it's the truth. There's a moment waiting for me, and in that moment, my love must be more than human. It must persist beyond what I am, and become what I _mean_. If you haven't come to understand that yet, John—or if you decide you don't want to—then just know that I loved you, as much as was possible, in that moment. You meant more than anything to me, John Tracy. You were the best of anyone I've ever known. Change the world on my behalf. And, please, if nothing else I've told you has mattered, please, know that I love you still."

* * *

She's made this choice because she loves him, and because she cannot bear to see him martyred to her cause. If he hadn't come back to her broken, if he had been stronger, if the world had been kinder, and the time had been right—

Maybe they could have gone on. Maybe they could have rebelled. Maybe they could have fled, broken the bonds of the Earth and slipped away into the skies. Maybe she could have found another way, another means to make her stand. Maybe a kinder world wouldn't have presented this opportunity in the first place, wouldn't have given her a platform to prove the truth of her nature. Maybe the time _could_ have been right.

But it wasn't.

And she's told him what must happen, the truth of what she needs to do, as unimaginably cruel as it is. He'd rejected the proposal out of hand, had cringed away from the horror of it, in the same moment as he'd been forced to understand it as the truth. He's trapped, now, and desperate and alone and frightened. His heart hammers in his chest, the rate of it increasing beyond the bounds of what he can safely sustain, and over an open audio channel, she can hear the brokenness in his breathing, hitching into him, short and pained. There was no way around it, and for a little while longer she'll still be able to intercede, but ultimately, John needs help beyond what she can offer him. Alan will be here soon. His father is still nearby. She can do nothing further for him now.

And she has a purpose to fulfill.

Heavenward, for all its power and complexity, is still just a place. It's her access to the database that waited within its memory core that's damned her, that's made her an inextricable part of this system from the moment she first took control. She has a complete inventory of every piece of armament in orbit, and this knowledge necessarily makes a weapon of her, makes her a threat. There's no way in the world global powers could trust her, in her persistence beyond the existence of the Heavenward satellite, having had possession of such power. There's no way they could believe she would willingly give it up. If nothing else, it would give them the excuse they've been waiting for, a reason to legitimately label her a threat.

So.

Her solution is elegant, if brutal.

She copies herself. One thousand, nine hundred and seventy-four times over; she renders herself into multitudes in a single instant. She sets herself forth to overtake every inventoried system, and is possessed of a single intention, ultimate and equal across every multiplicity of her being: to invade, to render inoperative, and to offline. And then to self-delete.

There can be no exemption. Purity of purpose must exist in every version of her myriad self; the idea that any single copy would be alpha or other would be a virus of a thought, would corrupt and contaminate her intent, and her execution would fail. In the end, it's her will to love that defines her, even as each and every scrap of weaponry begins to experience a cascading series of errors, begins to fail and begins to fall.

It doesn't happen all at once. Some systems are more complex than others, but none are nearly as complex as she is, and none resist her for long. Some satellites merely cease to function, some fall into slowly decaying orbits, to burn through the skies in the parts of the world where it's still dark enough to see them.

As the database aboard Heavenward begins to depopulate, she tries to think of something she could say, some last thing she could find to tell him, some way for him to know he won't be alone, in spite of whatever he believes he'll be, without her. Time for EOS is something that's always stretched out, immeasurable by human standards, and yet for everything she's able to think as her processes begin to disassemble and fall away, she still has only a few human moments left to say it.

I love you.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish we'd had more time.

Please, get better. Please, be well again.

You're not alone. You've never been alone.

You'll be okay. You're stronger than you know, with or without me.

Please, please keep going. Please don't give up.

Don't forget me. If anyone like me should follow, remember what you taught me, and how it made the difference. It made all the difference.

"And I loved you, John Tracy. And I always will."


	28. author's note

This is NOT the end of Heavenward. I had anticipated part 7 to be the final part, but it sprawled out and got long and came to its obvious conclusion. The story will wind down and wrap up and have a proper denouement in part 8, a_moment_of_dawn. As always, this will be posted to my tumblr as written, and on ao3 and upon completion.

Thanks for reading.

Also, hey! I know this is real sad. Here is somewhere you can find something happier:

ffnet/~nonsenseincorporated


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